


Eating I thru XVI

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner has an encounter





	Eating I thru XVI

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Eating 1 by Josan

Title: EATING (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: July 22, 1999  
Summary: Skinner has an encounter  
Rating: No sex, only some naughty language.  
Archive: ArchiveX, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
With thanks to Solan who always finds the weak spots and pushes me to fix them.   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

EATING 

It didn't look like anything much. A shack in the middle of nowhere. 

Not really in the middle of nowhere. Just so off the beaten path that it felt like that.

And not really a shack either. Just one large open room with a smaller one behind it. Wood construction. Paint only a distant faint memory. Tin roof. Sawdust on the floor.

The home of Beryl's Ribs.

The best ribs in the whole wide world. 

One of the best kept secrets in the whole wide world. 

And Walter Skinner knew this secret.

Once a year he came down to this neck of the woods for a little spring fly-fishing, peace, quiet. A replenishing of the soul.

And for a plateful, or two, of Beryl's ribs. Where he forgot all those manners his mother had pounded into him and ate with his fingers. And like a pig. Stuffing himself to the point of over-satiation on ribs, cole slaw, pecan pie and ice cream. Nourishment for the soul.

The place never changed. Trucks, beaten up and dust coloured, sat side by side in the front lot with a very few fancy city cars. Beryl, it was rumoured, was very fussy about whom she fed. 

Of course, Beryl to Skinner was a rumour also: he had never seen the woman herself. Assumed she was just a name painted on the old Coke boardsign that hung just under the sagging porch roof.

He'd been promising himself this treat as reward for forcing himself to return to DC and his desk. 

The fishing this week had been perfect. The weather neither too cool nor too hot. The bugs there but not the horrendous nuisance that they could be some years. All in all the perfect week's vacation that had been so needed to re-balance his psyche.

At the door, he forced himself *not* to remove his baseball cap: no one else here did. Not considered to be bad manners. His mother would have thrown her wooden spoon at him. Not that she would have recognized him.

The impeccable, well tailored, sharply creased AD Walter S. Skinner was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, the man who stood at the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the diminished light (Beryl, it was rumoured, didn't believe in wasting money on high wattage to light the place: everyone knew what he was eating and who he was with.), looked like someone his mother's cat wouldn't have condescended to drag in.

He was wearing a red flannel lumberjack shirt open over a tight dark t-shirt, worn dirty jeans with a hole on one knee, loosely tied workman boots. He was bearded, since he hadn't bothered to shave in the last six days. Looked rough because even though he was camped by the fish stream, the water coming down from the mountains was snow run-off. Too cold to bathe in. Voluntarily. And he hadn't.

He scanned the room out of habit, taking the time to clean his glasses on the tail end of his flannel shirt.

The room was still pretty much empty. Skinner had skipped lunch in anticipation of this meal and so had gotten here early. 

He noticed the young couple in the preppy clothing at one table: must be the ones with the BMW in the lot. Local boy makes good?

There were the usual old men who would have arrived first and be among the last to leave. They were settled in the middle of the place: the better to see the traffic. And to comment on it. They nodded at him and he nodded back. He was camping on the property of one of the oldsters, a man who knew what he was and had agreed with him, the first time that he had come out, that it was nobody's business but Skinner's what he did for a living. Skinner appreciated the anonymity.

He went to take a place in the back area when he noticed that the far end corner table was already taken. And by someone he recognized. 

Someone who had no bloody business being here. 

Like a bull moose in rut, Skinner felt his blood pressure rise at this perceived invasion of his personal territory. All the tension he had managed to eliminate over the past week was back with a vengeance.

He actually saw red for a moment before he went on the attack.

"Krycek!" His voice cracked like a bull whip against the back corner.

Alex Krycek looked up from the decades old TIME magazine that he'd found on the chair in the corner. His expression moved from startled to disbelieving to annoyed to, when he realized how enraged Skinner was, ready to battle.

He tossed the magazine onto the table as he rose to meet Skinner face to face, almost nose to nose.

"Just what the fuck are *you* doing here, Krycek?" growled Skinner.

"Same question to *you*," snapped Krycek.

Skinner grabbed the younger man by the front of his leather jacket. "How the hell did you find me here? No one knows I'm here."

Krycek didn't try to shake off the bulldog holding him. He just reached behind under his jacket for the knife he carried in the small of his back.

"What the fuck makes you think I was following you, asshole?"

"Is there something wrong here, boys?" a new, totally unexpected voice gravelled in.

Both men turned to attack whoever had the balls to interrupt them. And stopped the words before they left their mouths.

Standing, very calmly, in front of them was one of the largest women either had ever seen. She had to be an easy six foot six: Skinner had to look up at her. Large. At least two of Skinner. Hard, not fat. Coffee black skin. Steel coloured hair. Not a happy person by the look on her face.

She carried a very large cleaver in her hands.

"I don't put up with trouble in my place, boys." She glared at them.

Krycek's knife disappeared quickly back into its sheath. Skinner released Krycek, turned to face who had to be Beryl and her very large cleaver. 

"Ma'am," he began.

She ignored him. "Boys," she continued in that rumbling voice of hers, "I don't care what your troubles are with each other outside of here. You leave them there. We all got enough troubles of our own without importing yours."

Her tone re-activated Skinner's AD voice. "Ma'am," he spoke in the full authority tones he used when he was dealing with a situation he didn't like.

Beryl turned just enough to meet his eyes. "Don't sass me, boy. This is *my* place and I will just remind the both of you *once* that I can ban the two of you" delighted gasps of horror from their audience "*per...man...ent...ly* from under my roof. Is *that* understood? Boys."

>From the chatter that quickly surrounded them, it was obvious that this threat was rarely used and if put into effect was indeed permanent.

Skinner and Krycek exchanged angry looks but kept their mouths shut. They faced Beryl and both nodded.

"Good. Now the two of you will just sit yourselves down and Ellie will come out and serve you in a minute. And just where do you think you're going?" she addressed Skinner. "No, boy. You sit yourself down here at this table. This is the only table free for you boys tonight. That is if you still want to eat here tonight. Or any other night."

Skinner and Krycek looked around the room. True a few more of the tables had filled, but the place was still at least half empty. And their smirking audience was certainly appreciating the show they'd been putting on. 

"Don't push me, boys. I don't like leaving my kitchen and I don't appreciate the two of you scaring my little sister, Ellie."

Both men looked toward the kitchen door to see the "frightened" Ellie, just under six foot and built like Skinner, nod shyly at them. Krycek sent a "Sorry, Ellie," in that direction. Skinner tipped the bill of his cap.

"Now," smiled Beryl, "that's better. Sit down, both of you. And all I want to hear coming from this table for the rest of the evening is moans of pleasure, lips smacking, and the sound of fingers being licked. By the time the two of you finish putting away what you usually do, the pecan pie will be cool enough so the ice cream won't soup around it."

She turned and ambled like a large tank back to her kitchen.

Skinner glared at Krycek, "Dickhead, this is *my*..."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that language, boy," Beryl tossed over her shoulder as she stepped into her domain.

Skinner and Krycek sat down at the small table. Krycek had his back to the actual corner, Skinner pulled the chair so that his back was to the wall, facing the entrance. Not the best position for two men with long legs to claim space under a small table, but a position they would put up with for the ribs that Ellie was carrying over.

Ellie placed a large platter that was mountained with hot, sauce slattered, perfectly barbecued ribs. It took up most of the table. On the free space, she plunked down a two-pound plastic pail of home-made cole slaw with two forks in it. A young teenager stepped out from behind her and placed two beer mugs and a jug of brew on the last of the free space and dashed back behind the counter for safety. Ellie smirked at them, said nothing and ambled back to pick up another platter of ribs from the kitchen.

Skinner decided that the best solution to the Krycek problem was to ignore him. Krycek was *not* going to deprive him of this treat. He angled his chair so that the man was no longer in his line of vision, reached for the first rib.

His taste buds thought that they had died and gone to heaven. He couldn't keep his eyes open. His mouth watered around the tender meat, reacting to the spicy sweet hotness of the sauce that was almost caramelized over the rib.

"Oh, thank you, God." 

Skinner hadn't realized he'd spoken. He hadn't. That "grace" had come from his enforced companion of the evening. 

Skinner opened his eyes just enough to see that Krycek also had his eyes closed, was filling his mouth as reverently as his thanks had suggested. 

"I didn't know," Skinner spoke with his mouth full, "that you believed in God."

"Only in times like these," answered Krycek around his rib.

"Amen." Skinner picked up another and stripped the meat off the bone he held in his hands.

It was then that he noticed that Krycek was only using one hand to hold the long rib to his mouth. "Messier that way, isn't it?" he commented. Krycek's cheeks were already stained with sauce.

Krycek nodded. "Yeah," he agreed, "but it's a bitch trying to get the sauce and grease off the prosthesis."

Skinner had nothing to say to that, so he grabbed another rib.

The two men ate companionably and silently until the first edge was off their appetite. 

Krycek licked his fingers, wiped his hand on the thigh of his jeans, picked up his beer and gulped it down. The action brought Skinner's attention to the strong throat muscles, the slightly bobbing adams apple.

Skinner took a mouthful of cole slaw, savouring the vinegary tartness that cleaned the palate and sort of soothed the spicy burn in his mouth. The fork was difficult to grip in a greasy hand. He followed Krycek's example and wiped his hand on his jeans.

"You've got sauce all over your beard," offered Krycek.

Skinner passed his hand over, only spreading the sticky substance more over his face. He shrugged. "Don't see why we bother: it's only going to get worse."

Krycek nodded, blissfully attacking another rib. "What are you doing around here, Skinner? Didn't know you guys were in the area."

"*We're* not. I am. I go fishing around here every year at this time. Have been for the last seven. Cyrus over there at the centre table told me about this place. So how did *you* find out about it?"

Krycek wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looked at it for a moment, then licked the sauce off it. "Heard about it in Sarajevo a couple or three years ago. You remember that peace-keeping thing the Administration decided would be good PR? Heard some soldier describing his great-grandaunt's ribs, decided that they couldn't be as good as they sounded."

"But they are." Both men spoke as one. Suddenly grinned at each other.

"You ever tell anyone about the place?" Krycek asked.

"No." Skinner shook his head. "You?"

Krycek also shook his head. "There are some things that were never meant for sharing."

Skinner was surprised to hear himself laugh. Christ sake, this was *Alex Krycek* he was sharing a table with. Talking with. Laughing with.

Krycek must have felt the same way because he too looked a bit surprised at the laughter that had come out of his mouth. But he was a bit more willing to gamble on their truce. "Why fly-fishing, Skinner?"

So Skinner found himself expanding on the pleasure of fly fishing while Krycek ate and listened. Then Skinner asked Krycek a few innocuous questions about Sarajevo and the damage the war had brought to it. And listened with something that not quite resembled surprise as Krycek showed he had a very subtle understanding of the personality of the Balkans.

Gradually the platter filled up with cleaned off bones, the cole slaw pail was reduced to dregs, the beer jug had been emptied, refilled and emptied again. 

Krycek slouched against the back of his chair, hand gesturing to support a point he was making. Skinner had tipped his chair back, balanced it on its two back legs, nodding in agreement with Krycek's point.

Skinner realized with a part of himself that his blood pressure was back to what it had been when he'd entered the eatery. That he was actually enjoying himself, listening to some long involved convoluted story Krycek was telling him, which he knew, from the gleam in those eyes, was going to end up in some corny pun or line that he should see coming but hadn't the will to.

Krycek, he noticed, was also relaxed, so much so that when Ellie showed up with two hot, wet towels, he hadn't seen her coming. 

They used the towels to wash their faces, hands. Krycek scrubbed the part of his jeans he'd been using as a napkin. Skinner did the same while Ellie cleared off the table, gave it a quick wipe-down. The teenager brought two large mugs, almost the size of the beer mugs, to the table, filled them with coffee from the big pot he carried in the other hand. Offered to get them sugar and cream if they didn't take it black. 

Ellie reappeared and plunked two large plates, each with its own huge piece of pecan pie, a mound of vanilla ice cream.

"Every time," said Krycek, "I come here, I swear I won't be able to get this much food down, let alone eat dessert."

"But you do," grinned Skinner, as he scooped up some ice cream onto a forkful of pie. The ice cream was home-made vanilla, the pecans were fresh, the custard not too sweet, the pie crust rich. Krycek made a purring sound at the back of his throat. Skinner's was more of a growl.

Over coffee that was so strong that normally Skinner would have known he'd be getting no sleep that night but which seemed the perfect ending to this perfect meal, he asked, "Where are you staying, Krycek?"

Krycek stretched his body, angling his chair, knowing that sleep would be easy to find after that meal. "I've got a small tent with me in the truck. I'll find a field somewhere and set it up. With luck the owner won't show up with a shotgun until I've had a chance to sleep this off."

Skinner looked into his coffee mug, then up at Krycek. "My tent's already up. It's big enough for four to sleep in. Room for you if you want."

Hell, he was on vacation. Sounded like Krycek was too. Even in the fiercest of wars truces were called.

Krycek watched Skinner wondering if the man would bleed green. But, after some consideration, he decided the offer was a sincere one. And he was tired. Putting up a tent, even a small one, with only one hand was no picnic.

"Thank you. I'd like that."

The two men stood up, reached into their pockets for money. Neither offered to treat the other: there were limits to truces and they really weren't friends.

From the door of her kitchen, Beryl watched the two men leave together. And smiled.

**************************NIF**************************

 

* * *

 

Title: MAIL (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: July 23, 1999  
Summary: Skinner receives a package  
Rating: PG  
Archive: ArchiveX, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
EXPLANATION: This came about because Karen-Leigh made a comment about how anal retentive Skinner appeared to be in DRESSING. This is *her* fault <g>: I wanted to see just how anal retentive Skinner could be.  
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

Mail

The package was about six inches square.

Addressed to him: PERSONAL.

He shook it, knowing it was safe to do so. All external mail came through an x-ray machine just in case. So it wasn't a bomb. And it wasn't something on the reject list.

No return address.

Handwritten label in a strong, clear cursive.

Foreign stamps.

Scotland.

He didn't know anyone in Scotland.

He placed the box on his desk, stared at it. Decided to leave it for now. It used to drive Sharon crazy that he could receive something in the mail and leave it while he finished some work he had started.

In this case, it was a meeting just about to begin with several agents who were presenting case progress reports. One of whom was Jeffrey Spender. Which meant he would need something to distract him while Spender droned on, pontificating. The box would accomplish that.

Almost too well in fact. He found he had hardly heard a word of Spender's report when he realized that the table was waiting for him to say something. He nodded, gave his usual form reply to Spender's reports which always seemed to satisfy the man. Was Spender the only one who didn't understand those comments were formula by now?

By the time this meeting was over, he had a lunch meeting to attend with a couple of the other ADs and one of the Deputy Directors.

Then there was some crisis thing he had to deal with that was mainly PR rather than cold hard fact. He really disliked that part of his job. Hated having to answer questions in media-speak.

So, by the time he got to the package again, it was after eight and he still had the rest of the afternoon's work to get through. Kim had left hours ago after seeing to it that a sandwich and a cold drink were on his desk. That he was just now getting to.

He had taken off his tie, unbuttoned a couple of inches of shirt, rolled up his sleeves. He was reaching for another report when his eyes caught sight of the box, sitting there to one side of his desk, looking like it was patiently waiting for him to notice it.

He pushed back in his chair and stared at it.

It seemed to stare back at him, stoically patient. Still waiting for him to unfold its mysteries.

He reached for it, moved it around in his hands. Wondered why he was so reticent about opening it. It had been a long hard day and it wasn't over yet. Maybe he felt the need of a treat of some kind. Something that would egg him on to finish the work that had piled up in his absence.

On the other hand, what was wrong with opening it up now? Could be something mondaine: he would have anticipated for nothing.

He laughed at himself. Put the box back down to one side. Probably nothing more than an error, sent to him by mistake. He reached for a report.

Still. It *was* addressed to him: W. S. Skinner. FBI Headquarters. J. Edgar Hoover Building. Washington, DC. On two sides of the cube. And "Skinner" was underlined on both.

He pushed the report to one corner and picked up the box again. Examined it on all sides.

Thick brown wrapping paper. Folds crisply executed. The tape holding the edges down was of the narrow packing variety. Smoothed down for a firm fit. Someone had taken the time to ensure the package would arrive its wrapping intact.

He used his thumb nail to coax up one of the end tapes. Slowly pulled the tape off the paper. His grandmother used to open her gifts in the same measured manner. She could remove the tape off any fancy wrapping paper without tearing the tape or marring the paper in any way. Drove his mother crazy when she did that.

He worked all the tape off before he even contemplated opening the wrapper. He unfolded the end flaps, carefully straightened the paper. He placed the semi-opened box on his desk, unfolded the wrapper like an unveiling.

The box surprised him.

It was plain. White. Held shut with just a bit of tape at the front of the lid.

Nothing to give him a clue as to its contents.

He was intrigued. He picked up the box, tossed it back and forth between his hands.

His eyes followed it as he tried to judge its contents. Weight -- heavy enough but not so heavy as to overwhelm the size of the box. Solid -- no rattling. Or was it just well packed? He rotated the box, sniffed it. No smell. Maybe there was an internal wrapping, an envelope of some kind.

He set it down on the desk in front of him. Just looked at it. Could almost feel it snickering at him: I know what I am and you don't.

Finally, he stripped the last external piece of tape, opened the lid. Peered in.

Oh, God! Was it...It couldn't be!

He held his breath. Carefully, reverently, he eased the bubble plastic encased contents out of the box.

He was stunned. He blinked, not trusting his sight. This might still prove to be a mistake. A mirage. A mis-reading by his brain.

He unwrapped the bubble plastic exposing the exquisite reel for fly-fishing.

He cradled it in his hands, raised it to his eyes, not daring to believe...Yes, there it was. The discretely etched HARDY REELS with the even smaller "3 - 6 wgt" designation.

A Hardy. Top of the line. The Rolls Royce of British fly-fishing equipment.

Something he'd always wanted to own. Except that his one or two fishing escapes a year didn't warrant the extravagant expenditure of a Hardy.

He turned it over in his hands, rubbed his thumb over the etching. Realized he had a stupid grin on his face.

God! Who would have sent this to him?

He checked the box, the wrapping paper. No clues.

Except...No...Wouldn't be...Could it?

He remembered an encounter he had had that spring, in an out-of-the-way place eatery.

Had shared a meal, conversation with a one-armed assassin. Even shared his tent with him for one night. Had, in the early morning light, even demonstrated some of the skills the sport required.

Might, if he remembered well, have even mentioned the existence of Hardy Reels. With some longing. He had never discussed Hardy Reels with anyone else.

Why would Krycek have remembered...But it seemed he had.

Why would he have sent...What the hell was *he* to do with...He should return it. But where and to whom? There was no return address. No indication where it had been purchased. Only thing he knew was that it had been mailed from Aberdeen, Scotland.

What was Krycek doing in...

He carefully enfolded the reel in its protective wrapping. Placed it back in its box. Closed the lid on it. Moved it back to a corner of his desk. Sighed regretfully. Reached for a report and tried hard to put it out of his mind.

Not very successfully.

The thing just sat there, patiently waiting for him to finish his work.

It was nearing midnight when he slipped on his suit jacket, turned off the desk light. He was almost at the door when he looked over his shoulder at the white box sitting on his desk, innocent, the fulfilment of a wish he'd expressed aloud only once.

In the car, he carefully settled the seat belt making sure it wouldn't crush the box in his suit pocket.

*************************NIF***************************

 

* * *

 

Title: THE CONFERENCE (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: July 26, 1999   
Summary: Skinner has a pleasant time at a conference.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: Still PG: they're not *there* yet!   
Archive: ArchiveX, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
EXPLANATION: This was not supposed to be more than a couple of episodes exploring a possible basis of relationship between Skinner and Krycek. It is, without my intent, growing into something more. So, I guess the order is EATING, MAIL and now this one. I hope they can each be read without the other, but they do seem to be following. I'll let you know where this is going as soon as the boys let *me* in on it.  
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

THE CONFERENCE

Skinner hated these things.

Not the actual conferences themselves, though they were sometimes an incredible waste of time. And not just the public relations aspect of them: contacts needed to be made, maintained, reconnected. Not his forte, but still something he could do with some skill.

No. It was the presentations he hated. The ones he had to give himself. 

It was the forcing himself up to his feet, the long walk from his place to the podium. The knowing that he would not be witty, or humourous. That his material would be will researched, well thought out (he knew this about himself, was confident on that aspect of it.), but that the delivery would be bland, monotone. 

Because that was the only way he could cover up the nerves, the insecurity that went along with his speaking in front of a group of his peers.

He wasn't a talker. He was a doer. Give him a case to work on, a department to head, and he was fine. But he had never gotten over his acute discomfort of standing in front of a group of people, waiting for them to dissect him. 

Even if it were a friendly crowd like this one at the Law Enforcement Symposium. Even when he knew his subject would actually be well received.

He just knew that it would be better delivered by anyone else, and thereby made much more interesting. 

He placed his papers on the podium in front of him, made certain that the remote controlling the slide part of the show was in his hand. Took a deep breath, tried to find something to focus on. As Sister Ausmana had tried to get him to do in those Public Speaking exercises every kid in the school had to do.

The door at the back of the hall opened which thankfully distracted him a bit. He looked up to see who had come in at the last moment. Anything to delay the actual having to say those first words.

And really *was* distracted. So much so that the moderator had to cough to get his attention, silently querying if there was something wrong.

Skinner gave a slight shake of his head. Plunged into his presentation. Which he aimed solely at the man who stood, slouching against the back wall by the door of the hall.

What was Krycek doing here?

While one part of his brain dealt with the presentation, another dealt with the fact that not only was Alex Krycek in the room, he was in a room that required specific ID to enter as all the material being presented was classified. 

That instead of his usual costume of jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket, he was dressed in some suit that looked as though it had been made for him. Cut to hide the fact that the left arm was not real.

Every now and then Skinner would make eye contact with the interloper. Was surprised, that first time, at his sense of relief when Krycek's head nodded slightly at a point he was trying to make. If it was going over with Krycek, the rest of the group...

He kept on. Whenever he was trying to judge if his point was getting across, he'd check with Krycek. As long as Krycek looked interested, seemed to be following, he found that he didn't really care about the reactions of the rest of the hall.

He'd always found the question and answer portion easier to handle. Though there were the one or two queries that made him wonder how anyone that stupid had made it up to this level in the hierarchy. He wondered if Krycek would dare question him.

At the end, to the polite applause he was used to getting on his performances, Krycek gave him a nod and a smile of...approval(?)...which curiously pleased him.

But after he'd made his way down, answered a few of the comments tossed to him by people he respected, he found that Krycek was nowhere to be seen.

*That* didn't really surprise him. It was after all as if a cat had accidentally wandered into a yard filled with dogs. A smart "cat" took off before the dogs noticed it. And there were more than a few people present who would very much like to have an interview with one Alex Krycek.

No, what surprised him was the disappointment he felt.

He sat patiently through the other presentations of the afternoon. Made a few new contacts. 

Decided that before supper, he wanted a shower. He disliked the feeling air conditioning gave him, not that it was unnecessary here in San Antonio. It may have been fall, and it may have been a "dry" heat, but it was still a whole lot hotter than DC.

He was accepting his key from the desk clerk when the man handed him an envelope. It bore his name and title and he recognized the handwriting as the same one on the package label that had been sent from Scotland.

He waited until he was in his room to open the envelope. Inside there was only a book of matches with the logo and address of a local arcade. Inside, written on the cover, "8 p.m.?"

So it was that AD Walter S. Skinner, in San Antonio Texas for a Conference on Law Enforcement, found himself, not networking over the catered supper, but on his way to a "meeting" with a Consortium assassin with whom he seemed to have occasional truces.

He'd dumped the suit and tie for jeans, navy t-shirt, denim shirt. And felt like a kid released from chores as he carefully snuck out of the hotel, avoiding being seen by anyone who knew him, or anyone who would wonder why he wasn't joining the others in the dining room.

San Antonio was a beautiful location for a conference. Over the years, careful restoration to the old buildings, the cleaning up of the canal, the addition of a boardwalk made this a city centre that one felt one could stroll around, safely. And now that the sun had set, the air was cooling down making his search for the arcade even more enjoyable. After three days of confinement to the hotel, this "liberty" was a welcome respite.

He had to ask for directions from one of the many ice cream vendors who was delighted to show him where the arcade was located. "By this time of the evening, the guys who hang around there are ready for a treat."

The guys, once Skinner scanned the open entrance of the arcade, had to average twelve in age. And on a school night? What were their parents...Skinner caught himself. He sounded like some old fogy, even to himself. 

Inside, the arcade was well attended, probably better attended than the conference. Here and there was an unused console, but some had several boys, youths gathered around them.

He walked around the hall, looking to see if Krycek had arrived yet. One of the advantages of being an adult in the place was that it was easy to see over the heads of most. 

There seemed to be something going on in one of the corners. Skinner strolled over to find about a dozen young boys intently watching someone at play. From the comments, the intent oohs and aahs, the player seemed to be attaining heights of some kind. Skinner edged a little closer.

The player wasn't some boy, but a man, dark haired, wearing a leather jacket. Playing some pursuit game in which the steering wheel he was controlling drove an animated car that was evading villains, cops, anyone with a car, truck, plane, helicopter. Even the occasional tank.

Very successfully to judge by the rising numbers on the score board and the intensity of his audience. And doing so mainly with the use of one hand. Occasionally, the left would come up as if he had forgotten that it could be of very little use, and it was on the last of these that he finally lost control of the vehicle and it crashed, spectacularly, much to the disappointment of his fans.

"Ah, shit, man. You were so close!"

"Damn, that was hot!"

"Hey, no one's ever gotten that high on that machine. See, it's posted his score as the new high."

Krycek stood up and rotated his neck, loosing up the muscles that had tensed up during play. He *knew* that it was only a game, but his own sense of competition wouldn't let him take it as anything other than a serious challenge. He accepted the commiseration of his new friends, turned to let the next kid in line take the seat and saw Skinner leaning against one of the support posts, arms crossed, grinning at him.

"I must remember," said Skinner, "never to let you borrow my car."

Krycek smiled, a bit sheepish. "I tend to let loose on those things. The consequences aren't real."

"Well, you're braver than I am. I would never pit myself against one of those computerized games. It would wipe me out and I have my pride."

Krycek grinned. "There's something over there in that corner that may make you feel more daring." And led Skinner to a pinball machine that stood solitary in a corner, ignored by all the kids who preferred animation to lights flashing. "Don't try and tell me you haven't any skill on these."

"God! I haven't seen one of these in years. I thought they'd all been scrapped." Skinner looked over the play deck, the lighted up billboard. Passed his hands along the sides, feeling for the control buttons. 

"Shit, the hours I spent on one of these things at the pool hall." There was more than passing nostalgia in his voice: almost a longing for old times when his life was so much easier, more black and white than the greys that permeated his world these days.

Krycek pulled a quarter out of his jeans pocket, dropped it into the slot. "My treat."

Skinner quirked an eyebrow, meet Krycek's silent challenge and pulled back the ball release. And went into a world that he had left far behind when he had signed on for Vietnam. 

The first ball was a bit of a dud. He had forgotten most of his skills. They were finding their way back with the second ball. He got more of a feel for the table with the third.

He had caught the attention of some of the boys, who stopped for a moment on their way to an empty console to watch the man playing with what they had all considered to be a piece of decoration.

It was Skinner's turn to smile sheepishly when the last ball dropped into the collecting hole. "Well, so much for my misspent youth." He pulled a coin out and dropped it into the slot. "Your turn."

Krycek smiled ruefully. "I don't think so. You're the winner, hands down."

Skinner was embarrassed that he had forgotten. But he recovered quickly. "I'll take the left, you the right." At Krycek's hesitation, he added, "Or are you afraid that I'll be so much better at it that you'll never be able to step foot in an arcade anywhere ever again?"

Krycek laughed at the challenge and at the fact that Skinner had known which button to push. He stepped up, said "Hold on." Took off his jacket. "Not so tight," he explained, rotating his arm like a baseball pitcher warming up for the mound.

Skinner snorted, a little derisive. "Ready now? Good." And he put the first ball into play.

Krycek was not the only competitive one at that pinball machine. To the increasingly louder sound of muttered curses (there *were* kids present!), "Watch out!", "Wake up!", "Where's your brain!" the first ball was played out.

The second ball was flung back up with more co-ordination on the part of the two players, slowly beginning to work together rather than against each other to keep the ball into play.

The third was a total dud. They had barely played it when it got away from them and rolled down into the hole.

"Shit!" This from one of the small group of boys they had collected unaware.

Krycek dropped another coin and they set off again. This time all of Skinner's old skills seemed to return to him and melded with those of Krycek. The numbers were beginning to rack up. They won a free game. Skinner pulled off his shirt and tossed it on top of Krycek's jacket. War had been declared and it was they, not the machine, who were going to win.

By now they had acquired a crowd that consisted not only of the younger boys, but some of the teenagers and the manager, an oldster of twenty. They didn't hear them. Which, considering the noisy encouragement they were getting, was evidence of the ability both men had developed in shutting out the world around them when it suited them.

By the end of the free game, the score was respectable enough that Skinner the AD would not have been ashamed to present it to his pals back in the pool hall.

Both men were grinning like idiots as their audience gave them a round of applause. 

"Man, that was awesome! I've never seen anything like it," said the manager.

"It was fun," agreed Skinner, picking up his shirt. "Thirsty work. A beer?" He handed Krycek his jacket.

Krycek nodded.

They were on their way out when they overheard two boys explain how the pinball machine worked to a friend who had missed the whole thing.

"So who showed you?" the friend asked.

"These two old geezers. They played it together, but Charlie said..." They moved out of hearing.

Skinner went to make some remark to Krycek when he realised that the man had stopped behind him. Looking a bit stunned. 

"Did you hear what those brats called us?" He looked as though he was ready to go back and pick a fight with three pre-teens.

Skinner roared, not at all sympathetic. "What's the matter, Krycek? Don't see yourself as an old geezer?"

Krycek's mouth dropped open. Nothing came out. Skinner grabbed him by the arm, pulled him out of the arcade. Into the fresh air. Into a world that was populated more by adults than kids.

"So how old are you these days, Krycek?"

"Thirty-two. I'm still young." He sounded almost upset about it.

Skinner grinned. "Well, think about it, Krycek. To a twelve year old, thirty-two *is* ancient."

"Shit! I am *not* old." 

Krycek was taking this far too seriously, thought Skinner. He pushed the man over to a chair in an outdoor cafe, held up two fingers to the waiter passing by with a tray of beer. He had very little sympathy for the man's feelings. 

"Yap," he took a sip of cold beer, "first it's the rug rats that find you old. Then the teenagers start asking you if things were done a certain way when *you* were their age. The older ones want to know if you remember what you were doing the day Kennedy -- doesn't matter which one -- was shot, for an assignment in their History class. Next you'll notice that things aren't quite as clear as they once were. You'll need glasses. And then there are the days when you just *know* it's going to rain."

"Shut up!" growled Krycek into his beer. "I'm not *there*."

"Yet," agreed Skinner. He swallowed his beer under Krycek's glare. "And there are always younger ones around to remind you of the fact that you're not getting any younger. Like you," he hurried to add.

"Me?" 

"What, you don't think you make me feel old? What did you think I was feeling watching how at ease you were with that computer game you were handling when I came in? Do you have any idea what the average age of an FBI intern is these days? Or what it's like when I attend a conference and all the new whiz kids aren't yet thirty?"

"This is too depressing," announced Krycek. He signalled for two more beers. "Been fishing lately?"

Skinner watched as Krycek paid for this round. "Yes. I went to Vermont to do some lake fishing. The...eh...reel worked like a charm."

Krycek looked at him from under his lashes. "You're not going to throw it back at me?"

Skinner laughed. "No way. Not a Hardy. No one is ever going to get their hands on it. Thank you, Krycek."

"Da nada." Krycek seemed quite pleased that his gift had been accepted.

The two men strolled along the canal, just talking, not touching on anything that could be classified as sensitive.

At one point, Skinner did make a comment, in passing, at how surprised he was that Krycek knew about the conference. Wondered why he was so pleased when Krycek answered that he had been curious about the paper he was going to present.

"Hate doing those things," Skinner confessed.

"Why? Aren't the ideas yours?"

"Of course they are. But I'm a boring presenter. I know it and they know it."

"Why, didn't you write the stuff yourself?" Krycek was curious.

"*Yes*." It was Skinner's turn to be miffed.

Krycek shrugged. "Most don't. They have their assistants or some speech writer do it for them. Besides, those things aren't supposed to be some comedy routine. And what does it matter if you don't have them rolling on the floor. The subject matter was nothing to laugh at. And you presented it clearly. To the point. What more can you want? Hey! Ice cream!"

Skinner was still mulling over the compliment he thought he had gotten when he noticed that Krycek had ordered dark chocolate ice cream, to be served in a chocolate waffle cone, with chocolate sauce drizzled over the whole thing. He ordered butter pecan. In a plain cone. Nothing on it.

"You like chocolate," he observed.

"Good chocolate," amended Krycek. "Did you know that in studies women preferred chocolate to sex at a ratio of three to one. Now I'm not saying I agree, you understand..."

"I understand."

"But it comes in a very close second." He smiled at Skinner's laughter, glanced at his watch. That wasn't the first time he had done so in the evening.

"You got an appointment somewhere, Krycek?"

"Actually, I've got a plane to catch. I have to leave now to get to the airport. Got to be somewhere for eight tomorrow morning and I can't miss this connection."

They walked over to the street where there were some cabs lined up. Krycek was getting into one when Skinner suddenly realized he had said "connection". San Antonio was many things, but it wasn't a main terminal for connecting flights. Not unless you were taking the long way. Would Krycek actually have been in San Antonio just to... 

"Krycek." He waited till the man rolled down the window. "I had fun."

Krycek grinned. "Me, too."

Skinner watched the cab drive away, ambled back to the hotel, whistling softly, in a better mood than he had been for weeks.

*************************NIF************************

 

* * *

 

Title: THE CONFRONTATION (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: July 25, 1999  
Summary: Just after SR 819.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG  
Archive: ArchiveX, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

CONFRONTATION (1/1)

Skinner put down the scotch he'd been drinking and went to answer the knock on his door.

Had to be a neighbour as the intercom hadn't rung. Wondered who the hell needed anything at this time of the night?

"Yes?" He froze. Started slamming the door shut.

Krycek's hand blocked the door before it had gone half-way. He held up a palm pilot in the other.

Skinner's face formed a grotesque mask of hatred.

"What the fuck," he forced out between clenched teeth, "do you want now, Krycek?"

"Like I said in the car, I'd let you know." Krycek waited until it became obvious that Skinner had no intention of moving. He spoke softly. "Let me in, Skinner. I need to talk to you." 

Skinner didn't move, not until Krycek held up the palm pilot again. Then he turned and went to pick up his drink, stood by the window looking out over the city.

Krycek stepped into Skinner's apartment, quietly closed the door. One quick look told him the place hadn't changed at all since the night he had spent on Skinner's balcony. He felt a small flare-up of anger, pushed it down. This was going to be dicey enough without old business interferring.

He walked over to the coffee table, took something out of his pocket, set it down. Skinner had been watching his reflection in the window.

"What's *that*?" he growled at Krycek's image.

"Scrambler. It'll mess up any signal that's being picked up from this room."

Skinner's voice grew even colder. "What you're telling me is that my home is bugged." He finished his drink. "So, Krycek," he turned to face the man he had forgotten was an enemy, "I'm their new 'Saturday Night Live' show?"

Krycek ignored the question. Placed his hand with the palm pilot in his jacket pocket. "They've got your car bugged, too."

"Is there no part of my life they haven't bugged?" He didn't expect an answer. "What do you want, Krycek? Get to the point and then get out here."

Krycek meet Skinner's hatred with resigned patience. "The point is you've got to be more careful."

"Of you?" Skinner spat. "Certainly."

"No, not of me. Spender. He wants you dead."

Skinner raised a cold eyebrow. "Spender? You're confused, Krycek. Spender is dead."

"No. He's very much alive. I recently...dropped in on him."

"Another of your experiments in resurrection?"

Krycek shook his head slightly. "No. If it were up to me, he'd be six feet under, weighted down in a steel coffin. No. He's still around. And he's still pissed off at you."

"I should care?" Skinner's voice betrayed the problem he was having controlling his anger. At Krycek. More at himself. For having been duped into thinking he and Krycek had a truce of some kind.

Krycek was beginning to lose patience. He was putting himself at risk here, coming to Skinner this way. If they were keeping close watch on Skinner, someone was going to wonder why all they were picking up was static. He didn't have much time.

"Shit! Yes, you should bloody well care. Come on Skinner, you're neither stupid nor blind. Spender's been trying to eliminate you since the moment it became obvious to him that you weren't going to be *his* man."

"Think about it. That thing with the hooker. The attempt on your wife that he tried to set you up for. You think the Cardinale thing was chance? Hell, the only reason he didn't succeed is that Cardinale was always quick off the shot. That's how come Melissa Scully died."

Skinner clenched his fists. "You'd have done better, I suppose." His voice was laden with scorn.

"Yes," Krycek snapped back. "I'm a professional. And I'm good. I hit what I aim at *after* I've identified my target. I don't make mistakes and I rarely miss."

"So that's why they gave you the contract." Skinner felt as disgusted as he sounded. "I'm surprised you took so long. All those nice, easy chances. Beryl's. San Antonio. What the hell were you waiting for?"

"Maybe I was waiting for a chance to keep you alive." Krycek's voice got louder.

"Excuse me if I find that hard to believe."

"Why is it so hard, Skinner? I took care of the Rumanian when he had you in his sights."

"Right," Skinner scoffed. "Just so you would have the pleasure of offing me yourself. How *did* you get the nanocytes in me? Or is that none of my business?"

Krycek shrugged. "Ortega. When he touched your hand. In the hall."

"What the hell did *I* ever do to Ortega?"

"Nothing. You were his passage to the Cayman Islands and a bank account. He approached Spender with his invention. Spender wanted proof that it would work. *He* chose you as the test subject."

"So where's Ortega now?"

"Dead."

Skinner jammed his hands into his pants pockets. After a moment's thought, "*You* killed him."

Krycek nodded. "Yes. I killed him."

Skinner looked Krycek over like he was something that had crawled out from under a rock.

"Why so shocked, Skinner? It *is* what I do." Krycek raised his chin, meeting Skinner's disgust right on. "Besides, it's not like he was some gift to humanity. He developed those things for his own benefit. To sell to the highest bidder. If Spender didn't pay him what *he* wanted, he would have offered his toys to anyone with a big enough bank account."

"So, what did you do, blow his brains out?"

"In a way. I used his nanocytes on him. Sort of poetic justice, don't you think? I got them into him the same way he got them into you. And I had to be there when he programmed the palm pilot. It was easy enough to re-program it for him as well. Spender got the proof he wanted. It's just unfortunate that it won't do him any good. Seems Ortega's documentation, all of it, has disappeared."

"I've got them in me, and I'm still alive." 

"Yeah, the Elders were finally persuaded that you were worth more to them alive than dead. So far they've overruled Spender's plans for you. He wasn't too happy about that, but he's not in their good graces right now. He'll be monitoring you, hoping you'll give him any excuse to take you out. That's why you have to be careful."

"So, if I read you right, I should thank you for that oh-so-pleasant experience, for the hospital stay. For the experience of dying."

"And for the fact that you're still alive."

"Well, did you ever think that maybe death would be preferable than to being under *your* control? Is *that* how you convinced them, your Elders?"

"Yes. Right now," Krycek stated quietly, "they trust me more than Spender."

"Do they know yet what a mistake that is?"

Krycek's head snapped back as if slapped. "Right now," he ground out, "*I* have them believing that if you die, Mulder and Scully will track them down like bloodhounds to the very last of them. That this way, they'll come after me, not the Consortium. Which keeps them alive as well as you."

"I see," scorned Skinner. "A noble martyr to the cause. What do you think will happen to you if they do get you? Are you going to spin them a fairy tale too?"

"It's up to me to see they don't get me."

Skinner took a hand out of his pocket, pointed to Krycek's pocket with the palm pilot. "Better make sure you keep that thing with you at all times. They won't be the only ones looking to take you out."

Krycek let out a sigh of frustration. "Look, Skinner, I don't care what you think about me. All that should matter to you is that you're alive."

"With a choke chain around my neck."

"A chain that can come off. Jesus, Skinner, there is nothing stopping you from making the Consortium's life difficult. You just keep on supporting Mulder and his crusade, covering up for him as need be. But do it discretely. They just have to think that they've got you under their thumb. Fuck, Skinner, isn't that better than being dead!"

Skinner turned and went back to stare out of the window. Krycek checked his watch: he'd been here too long already.

"I hated it."

Krycek barely heard Skinner. "Yeah, well," he tried to show he understood, "at least you were in a hospital with people around you who cared for you. Scully barely left your side. Not like being in the middle of a forest in some god-forsaken area wondering if you were going to bleed to death or just die from the pain."

He didn't get the response he was hoping for.

Skinner turned his head slightly and spat out, "So sorry for you, boy. But then you didn't die either. My loss."

He went to refill his drink. He didn't see Krycek's hand come up like it was reaching for something, hesitate and go back to the pocket. 

When Krycek spoke his voice was cold, almost bitter. "Well, we all make decisions, Skinner. Take chances. I took the chance that you'd understand. Guess I was wrong. Just be careful, Skinner. Much as you hate it, I may not be around the next time Spender decides to take you out."

Skinner turned to see Krycek pick the scrambler off the coffee table. "I would just rather never set eyes on you ever again."

At the door, Krycek tossed over his shoulder, "I don't think you'll be *that* lucky." 

Three days later, Agent Scully requested a private meeting with the Assistant Director. He was wary of her request but granted it because it would cause questions he couldn't answer if he refused.

Scully placed a folder on his desk in front of him and sat down.

"What is this, Agent Scully?"

"It would seem to be the missing documentation on Ortega's research. It was delivered last night to my apartment by courier. There is no indication of the sender. And the courier company picked it up from another courier."

"Sir, if this is Ortega's work, and I believe it is, it seems the nanolytes will disintegrate, for want of a better word, if not periodically activated."

"How often is periodically, Agent Scully?" Skinner sat back in his chair, face in the shadows.

"As nearly as I can conclude, non-activation over a period of six to eight months causes the blood to de-activate them."

Skinner touched the edge of the file, moved it a bit so it sat perfectly square in front of him. "Thank you for that information, Agent Scully."

She stood to leave. "Sir, maybe he won't..." But she obviously didn't believe that enough to even finish her thought.

Skinner waited till the door closed behind her to open the file and read the contents. When he finished, he sat back in his chair, reached under his desk and pulled out his briefcase. He opened it.

There, lying on a pile of reports he would be reading that night at home, was the palm pilot that Krycek had left behind on the couch.

************************NIF**************************

 

* * *

 

Title: EATING II (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: July 26, 1999  
Summary: Back at Beryl's  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG. (Just hang on, *it's* coming.)  
Archive: ArchiveX, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
EXPLANATION: Wasn't supposed to be a series, but so far it goes EATING, MAIL, THE CONFERENCE, THE CONFRONTATION.  
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

EATING II (1/1)

In a world wroth with change, Beryl's went against the grain and didn't.

The same large room, the same tables and chairs. Fresh sawdust on the floor.

Time seemed to have stood still here. And Skinner's spirit appreciated it.

No Consortium hearings. No dealings with the bodies that kept on showing up to be bagged or arrested. No sneering disavowals of alleged deals with even more scorned alleged Aliens. No cover-ups.

The last year had been hell on wheels. Eighteen to twenty hour days, often seven days a week, dealing with the fallout engendered by those supposedly anonymously sent packages, e-mail dumps, locker keys.

Mulder, Scully and himself had been the main recipients of these bounties, had been the ones on the first line of attack (both leading and receiving) that had changed many a life, many a point of view.

Mulder was no longer in the basement. No longer at the FBI for that matter. He was heading his own think tank financed investigation into the genetic tampering so disavowed by the Administration.

Scully had taken off for Quantico. Teaching. She would probably leave too one day when she got over having to do autopsies on bodies with green blood.

As for him, well, he had been reluctantly offered --reluctantly because he was the one indirectly responsible for the vacancies that needed to be filled -- a promotion to the level of Deputy Director. In return for his keeping quiet about the reasons for so many of the internal changes at the FBI and in other organizations. A position that would enable him to collect a huge salary for just sitting at a desk, not even having to do that much on a daily basis.

An offer that had been rescinded by the new Director. Jana Cassidy understood just how insulted he had been by that offer, how it had eroded the little bit of loyalty he had left to the Bureau.

She had called him into her office, still her old one of Deputy Director since her appointment was so new, and informed him he was taking a month off. That if he showed his face in the place one minute before then she would have him escorted off the premises. And that when the month was over, if he still wanted the promotion, it was his, but that she did not expect him to sit on his ass and do nothing.

Was *that* understood?

And that if he didn't want the promotion, he was still Assistant Director. If he still wanted the job. If he wanted to stay with the Bureau.

Jana Cassidy was no idiot, but even an idiot would have been able to see just how tired, how weary, how disillusioned Walter Skinner was. If he were to stay with the Bureau, he would need to find that dedication that he had somehow lost over the last while.

So, though the season was not at its best, here he was, back at the fishing spot, letting the absence of voices, ringing cell phones, artificial tones of PR spin doctors fade from his hearing. Letting his body get used to sun and fresh air again instead of track lighting, reprocessed air. To being able to hear his own thoughts.

After a week of eating canned food -- fishing was more an exercise in practising his casting rather than actual catching -- here he was, standing in the doorway at Beryl's, amazed that nothing had changed in the two years since his last visit.

Ellie was still at the counter, looking like a hurricane wouldn't move her. There was the usual table of old timers, Cyrus his temporary landlord among them. One or two of those who had been born and raised in the area but had gone on to the big time in the city. 

Skinner took off his baseball cap, passed a hand over his scalp, put the cap back on. He nodded to the table of old timers on his way to the back. Yap, nothing had changed since his last visit.

Including the man who sat in the shadowed back corner. A man who shouldn't have been there.

Skinner stopped dead in his tracks. 

Krycek had his head down, was playing with something on the table top with his finger. A quick once over and it was obvious that the man had lost weight, looked as tired as he, Skinner, felt.

Skinner made his way quietly to the back table. 

Krycek was stunned to see him. His head went back as if bracing for a blow. Slowly he got to his feet. "Didn't think you'd be here. This is later than your usual visits." His voice sounded rough, as if he had a sore throat. Skinner noticed a new scar at the left side of his neck: someone had gotten a little too close.

"Things have been hectic at the office. But you would know about that." Some of Skinner's irritation made itself known in his tone. Their "anonymous" source reacted to it with a tightening of his face. 

"Sorry." The sarcasm in his voice cancelled out the apology. He went to walk around Skinner.

"Where are you going?" Skinner snapped. He hadn't meant to snap, but had done nothing but in recent months and the habit slipped out.

Krycek stilled. "Look, this is your place. I'm leaving you to it." 

"Sit down. I have something to say to you." Skinner couldn't have stopped the belligerent tone even if he had heard it. Krycek did and decided to keep on walking. Skinner made the mistake of grabbing him. Found himself with a knife at his throat.

"What is it with you two? Can't you boys ever come in here without fighting? You've got Ellie all worried again. All this stress isn't good for her."

Beryl stood with her hands on her hips, looking like she was ready to grab the two of them by the scruff of the neck and give them a good shaking. The anger and tension radiating off the two men didn't seem to frazzle her at all. 

"You're making my customers nervous, boys." She watched the two men release each other, the knife disappear. She shook her head at them, sighing. "You two come with me." And turned, fully expecting them to follow.

Which, probably because she was expecting it of them, they did.

Through the dining hall, into the kitchen and out back. To a veranda that sat up-wind of the kitchen. She stopped at the end where there were a couple of very wide rocking chairs, a cut down barrel being used as a table. She pointed to two flattened cushions on the floor by the edge and glared at the her two customers.

Neither man spoke a word of protest at her silent chastisement. They each took a cushion, sat. The roof supports were right there, providing a back to these "seats". 

Krycek rested his head against his, closed his eyes. He had been hoping for some peace, maybe a meal that would ease the sights of the last year. God, he was tired! He wasn't ready to deal with Skinner. He doubted that he had anything left to deal with anybody. But certainly not Skinner.

Skinner sat, one leg dangling over the edge of the veranda, the other crossed in front of him. He looked over the back yard, not seeing it. Damn! He hadn't meant to snap at Krycek, to grab him that way. He had just wanted to talk to the man, had only managed to alienate him further.

Beryl shook her head in disgust. "Benjy!"

Benjy was another of her great-grand nephews. Or was it great-great? It was hard keeping track of all these kids. But Benjy was one of the bright ones. He handed her the small crock jug and two small juice glasses. She smiled her thanks at the lad.

"Seems to me the two of you need some perking up." She filled one glass, handed it to Cyrus's FBI man. Filled the other, handed it to the one armed man who was plenty quick with that knife of his. 

"Well, what are you wanting for? Looking at the stuff won't get it in you." Watched with a hint of a smile as the two tossed back their drinks.

Her smile grew broader as the faces froze. Tears appeared in the eyes of the FBI man. The other just held his breath for a moment, blinked. The FBI man coughed, the other took a deep breath. They both looked up at her. She grinned. Nice to know they would both be able to hold their liquor.

She gestured for the glasses, refilled them. "Now then, that should put an edge on your appetites, boys. And behave yourselves. Benjy will be out in a bit with your food." She was quietly snickering to herself as she ambled back to her cooking.

The silence she left behind was slowly tensing.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have grabbed you that way." Skinner was concentrating on the glass he was slowly rotating in his hand. "I'm tired these days and I acted without thinking."

Krycek took a sip of his glass, appreciating the way the moonshine heated a path down to his stomach. Lately all he'd felt was cold. Or nothing.

Skinner went on. "And I'm sorry about the way I reacted the time you came to see me. I was upset. I can't say that I like what you did to me." Krycek stiffened, brought his head up like a boxer about to hit. Skinner met his eyes, held them. "But I think I understand why you did it."

Krycek didn't react for a bit. Then he looked into his glass, spoke as if to himself. "I didn't know what else to do. If I hadn't taken the offer, they would have found someone else to do it. To kill you. I didn't want that."

Skinner leaned back against the post. "Yeah, well, I would have hated missing fishing season this year."

They sipped their drinks in silence.

"Still using the reel?" Krycek found something interesting to examine on the floor by his knee.

"Yeah."

Krycek looked up. "I'm surprised you didn't throw it out."

"Honestly, I never thought about it. I haven't been fishing for over a year. By the time I got here, as I said, I had figured a few things out."

Benjy placed a tray of ribs on the barrel top, came back with a bucket of cole slaw and then a jug of beer and two mugs. "Beryl said to remind you not to feed the dogs too much. They getting pretty fat."

>From under the veranda crawled two hound mixtures, one the size of a small pony (how the hell had it fit in the space under the floor?), and a regular sized dog. Both of them lay facing the two men, heads dropped mournfully on their front paws, ready to patiently wait for any bounty that came their way.

Krycek broke down first. He tossed a partially cleared bone to the smaller of the dogs. Skinner sighed resentfully but tossed a rib to the big dog. Each had made a friend for life. Or until the next bone anyway.

Neither man had been very hungry until they had started eating. Krycek suddenly became aware of just how long it had been since he'd eaten anything that he actually tasted. Skinner found himself remembering just why he came here every year. How much he had missed this.

There was no conversation during the meal. By the time Benjy took the debris away, replaced it with coffee and dessert, the tension and anger was gone as if the feelings engendered by the food overwhelmed all other emotions. 

The dogs soon realized that the meat part of the meal was done, rose stretching, ambled off, the large dog following the smaller.

Krycek watched the dogs leave, decided it was time to follow their example. He cradled the mug of coffee in his hand, found he really didn't have the energy to move. The sky was cloudless. Maybe he'd take the chance of sleeping in the back of the truck tonight instead of setting up the tent. Maybe, if he asked nicely, Beryl would let him park in the back yard for the night.

Skinner found himself surreptitiously watching the man sitting in front of him. He recognized exhaustion when he saw it. Knew that Krycek was beginning to fight off sleep. Wouldn't do anyone any good if he got behind the wheel of a vehicle and killed himself or some other driver.

It was early yet: Beryl's kept country hours, not city ones. 

"You got a tent somewhere?" Skinner finally broke the silence.

Krycek roused himself, put his mug down on the table. "No. It's still early. I should get in a few miles."

Skinner frowned, looked over to the dogs now lying in the shade under the large pecan tree. "You in a hurry to get somewhere?"

"No." No, there wasn't anywhere he needed to get to these days.

Skinner put his mug down, stood pulling out his wallet. "My tent still has room for another. If you're interested." He concentrated on carefully taking out the money to pay for the meal.

Krycek rested his head back on the post. "Sure you can tolerate having me around?"

Skinner looked up, thought about it again, nodded. Krycek pushed himself off the floor, took out his wallet. 

Benjy appeared out of the kitchen with a mason jar of clear liquid. "Beryl said to take this with you." Skinner and Krycek exchanged glances. A hint of a smile tugged at Krycek's mouth. Skinner quirked an eyebrow, sighed but accepted the jar. Considering the condition they were both in, there was enough moonshine in that thing to ensure a week's sleep.

Benjy took their money, watched the two men walk slowly around the back of the building to the front lot and their trucks. 

The dogs ignored the whole thing.

 

* * *

 

Title: CAMPING (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: July 29, 1999   
Summary: Resolution  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: NC-17 (Yap! At long last!)  
Archive: ArchiveX, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
EXPLANATION: Order of these: EATING, MAIL, THE CONFERENCE, THE CONFRONTATION, EATING II.  
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

CAMPING (1/1)

He'd been right about Krycek.

During the fifteen minute drive to the camp site, he'd kept one eye on the road, the other in the mirror, watching Krycek concentrate on driving. When he'd gone to dump his sleeping bag in the tent, Skinner hadn't been too surprised that he hadn't come back out. He lay face down on his spread out sleeping bag, sound asleep.

It was dark when Krycek came out, yawning, stretching. Skinner sat propped up by the fire, reading a book by the light of the camp lantern he had set up nearby. The smoke from the camp fire was fairly successful in keeping the bugs at bay.

"Hungry?"

Krycek shook his head.

"There's beer in the cooler," Skinner offered. 

Krycek brought him one, held his between his knees, twisted the cap off. He'd removed the prosthesis. Skinner found himself wondering how Krycek had managed to stay alive so long with just the one arm and hand. How much use could that plastic and metal thing be?

They said nothing. Let the quiet, the night soothe nerves, tension.

Skinner put his bottle to one side, shifted position so that he could watch his "guest". Krycek sat cross-legged, playing with his beer bottle, looking out over the water.

After a while, Skinner took a deep breath. Now or never, he thought.

"When I first met Sharon I was overwhelmed by her." Krycek stilled, sat just listening, staring at a ripple in the stream caused by a large rock. "She was bright. Beautiful. Had a pile of friends just like her. They went to concerts, art galleries. Could spend an entire evening just talking about a picture they'd seen that afternoon."

"I never understood how she could be interested in a jock like me. I mean, she had to make all the first moves because I couldn't pick up the signals she was sending out. No, not true. I did pick them up. I just couldn't believe that she was sending them out to me."

"I'm okay in the field. I know what to look for, how to handle the information that comes my way. My success rate was one of the reasons for my promotions. But when it comes to personal skills, it's difficult. I don't seem to find the words. It's what finally broke up my marriage to Sharon."

Skinner made himself look at Krycek. "I don't say the things I should say because I'm not sure they're the right words to use. Do you understand?"

Krycek had put his beer down. Now he effortlessly rose to his feet, came over to Skinner who was watching him intently. He straddled Skinner's thighs, slowly knelt, all the time holding onto Skinner's eyes. Carefully watching for reactions, he bent his head and kissed him. Used his lips to nudge open Skinner's mouth. Tasted him.

Skinner didn't react. His eyes open, he waited until Krycek pulled back. Krycek's head came up. His mouth grimaced into a sort of smile. "I guess I didn't understand."

As he went to move, Skinner's hands gripped his face, held him in place. "Who was that for, Krycek? For those old men of yours, if there are any left?"

Krycek's eyes went hard. "No." He mocked himself. "That was for me. Only for me."

"Good." Skinner pulled Krycek's mouth to his, slowly courted the closed off face. 

His mouth stroked Krycek's lips. Moved slowly along the jaw line. Nipped at an ear lobe, gently sucked at the bite. Found the soft spot just under the jaw. Teased it with the tip of his tongue.

Krycek closed his eyes, stayed very still even when the hands moved off his face to settle on his shoulders. The mouth and tongue were playing along his throat, nipped and soothed his adams apple. He raised his chin, allowing Skinner to make his way to the other side of his face. Past the other soft spot under his jaw that was even more sensitive than the first.

This time his mouth opened beneath Skinner's and he passively allowed himself to be tasted, to be examined. Carefully, he permitted his mouth to respond to Skinner's touch.

He was too used to rejection, but this man's had left deep scars. He didn't think he could take it if this turned out to be Skinner's idea of revenge. So he waited.

Skinner pulled back to find the wariness he had sensed in Krycek reflected in his eyes. He brought up a hand, brushed fingertips over the stubbled cheek. "Do we move this inside the tent, Alex?"

Krycek was aware that Skinner had never before used his first name. He had wanted this man for so long that he was now afraid how much it meant to him that Skinner had called him Alex.

He nodded once.

"What do you use to shave, Alex?" Skinner asked with the hint of a grin.

Krycek was lost. Shave? He had to think. "Shaver."

"Good," smiled Skinner. "Why don't you go and use it while I put out the fire and settle the camp for the night."

There was the slight glimmer of a smile on Krycek's face. He passed his hand along his cheek. Even his palm rough and calloused as it was registered the bristles.

Krycek had left his things in his truck. He shaved there, consciously not thinking of anything. He watched Skinner put out the fire, make certain the food was locked up in his rental.

Skinner was dipping another pail of water from the stream when he saw Krycek at the door of the tent, taking off his boots, a knapsack in his hand. "Alex." The man paused. "Don't take off your clothes. I want to do that."

Krycek found it hard to breathe. Felt his body react to the soft promise in Skinner's voice. Finally he nodded, went in.

Skinner found him arranging the sleeping bags over the mat he slept on. Both it and his sleeping bag were double-sized: he needed the space and, even if he were camping, his bones reacted badly to sleeping on the ground.

He realized that they were both wary, not too certain where to put themselves. He had stashed the gas lantern in his vehicle, taken out the battery powered one. He hung it from the hook at the top of the tent. Answered Krycek's unasked question. "I want to be able to see you."

He took off his glasses, folded them, safely stored them out of the way.

He knelt next to Krycek who, for some reason, suddenly reminded him of a wild animal. Semi-tamed. Still afraid of touch. Why was that?

Krycek closed his eyes as the big hand cupped his now smooth cheek. He turned his face, rubbed into the palm. "Better?"

Skinner grinned. "Yes. Thanks." And used his tongue to recourt Krycek's face.

"Skinner."

"Hummm?"

"I'm clean."

Skinner raised his head from the ear he was nibbling on.

"I'm clean," Krycek repeated. Watched as Skinner finally caught on.

"It's Walter. And I'm clean too." He reached over to his knapsack, opened a pocket, took out lube and condoms. "But just like the boy scouts, I'm prepared for any emergency." Watched a slow grin spread from Krycek's mouth to his eyes.

Skinner placed his hands on either side of Krycek's face, tilted it back so his throat was exposed and played his mouth over it. 

Krycek co-operated, turning his head first to one side then to the other, letting the heat of Skinner's mouth warm him. Maybe this was for real. He had jerked off so often to his Skinner fantasy that he was almost afraid of the real thing.

He brought his hand up, finally participating. He cupped Skinner's head, holding it in that spot that seemed directly linked to his cock. Realized that sometime in the evening, while he had slept, Skinner had shaved. 

Skinner's hands had slipped to under his t-shirt, were slowly stroking his ribs in a sort of circular motion that made it difficult to breathe. The action slowly raised his top, bunching it up around his shoulders. He tried to turn his body so that the stump of his left arm was less visible. He usually kept it covered if he could, but Skinner would have none of that.

He carefully uncovered the stump, made a small sympathetic grunt and bent his head to the mass of shiny scars, calloused skin. He remembered Krycek trying to explain how it had been for him, in the forest, wondering if he were going to bleed to death or just die of the pain.

For a moment he wondered if there were too many scars between them for this to work. Then he remembered how deeply he had felt betrayed by this man. Too deeply for a casual relationship. 

Skinner tossed Krycek's shirt to one side, realized that Krycek had been busy unbuttoning his shirt. He sat back on his heels and let the man finish. He'd have to remember Krycek had only the one hand. Have to compensate for it. So he sat back, holding his arm out so that Krycek could slip the sleeve off.

Krycek turned to toss it onto the knapsacks and momentarily lost all sense. Skinner's mouth had clamped onto one of his nipples. It took him by surprise just how sensitive they were to another's touch. They never felt this way when he played with them. Why would another's mouth affect so differently? Or was it just because it was Skinner's?

Skinner let his hands roam over the wiry body. He could make out by the low light of the lantern the pale markings of old scars, the pinkish tinge of the newer ones. He didn't like that one on his neck. Moved his mouth back to it to soothe the pain away. Heard a soft sound that made his cock harden. Funny how parts of the body responded so well to certain stimuli.

Like right now, Krycek was sculpting his collarbone with his mouth. Why would that affect his cock so much?

Skinner moved closer to Krycek, gently lowered him down to the bed. He had been turned on by the soft surprised sound Krycek had made when his mouth teased his nipples. So he went back to them, all the while letting his hand work its way lower to the waistband of his jeans.

The fingers brushing over Krycek's abdomen made him gasp, allowing Skinner's hand a pathway to the cock that was demanding more and more attention. He pushed his hips into the hand that cupped him, used his leg to hook Skinner's and draw him closer. Skinner, he decided, was taking too long in undressing him. Maybe a hint...

His hand went to Skinner's fly, opened his jeans with just a bit of difficulty -- God, the man was big, difficult to move. His hand slipped under the waistband of his shorts, found something else big to deal with. Managed, because he knew that Skinner was suddenly only aware of the hand on his cock, to turn the man to his back, so that now he was on top.

Skinner took advantage of that to divest Krycek of his jeans and shorts. He co-operated enough with him to raise his hips so that the rest of his clothes joined Krycek's.

Krycek's mouth worked its way down Skinner's body. Past old scars. He knew Skinner had been in Vietnam. Did these date from that time? His tongue bathed the newer one on his abdomen that Cardinale had caused. Wished, oh so hard for the space of a breath, that he had been the one to arrange Cardinale's death.

He was taken again by surprise when he found himself on his back, Skinner over him. There was a momentary flash of fear, a fear from long ago. Of other big shoulders. Big hands that had delivered so much pain. But these hands were gentle on his body. Slowly exploring him. Slowly rousing him. Paying attention to his reactions. Not the usual hip-grinding, token stroking, mouth or ass. This exquisite slowness was new to him.

He couldn't remember if anyone had ever taken this amount of time over him, attending to his pleasure.

"Please, Walter. I want you in me."

Skinner let his hands slip under Krycek's hips, raise them. His mouth slowly teased a path from navel to the fold where thigh met torso, enjoying the reactions he was getting. He smiled at the twitching cock, its glans reddening, leaking fluid.

A man's body was so different than a woman's. Smelt different. Tasted different. Reacted different. He had forgotten.

"Alex. It's been a while. Tell me if I hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."

Skinner pulled Krycek's legs over his shoulders, reached for the lube. He was quickly aware that Krycek was no novice, but he was careful just the same. He quickly rolled a condom over himself, positioned himself, hoping he could go slowly enough. All he wanted was to bury himself deep within Krycek.

Krycek waited until he felt Skinner's cock begin its entry then he moved his hips so that Skinner no longer had to think about being careful. And Krycek had what he wanted: Skinner's cock deep in him.

And not just that. He also had hands stroking his cock, his body, fingers brushing his skin until all he was was sensation. His entire being was centred on the cock pumping into him, riding him into senseless pleasure. He met Skinner rhythm for rhythm, move for move until he could no longer hold back the scream that came out of the core of him. He barely heard Skinner's grunts, growl as he followed Krycek.

They lay entangled together, wrapped around each other.

Skinner became aware that most of his weight was resting on the smaller man beneath him. He carefully pulled out, removed the condom, tossed it into the paper bag at the door of the tent.

He spooned Krycek to him, managed to pull the open sleeping bag over them. The nights were cold.

Sleepily nuzzled Krycek's neck and shoulder. Got a sleepy sound of contentment in return.

Something woke Skinner.

In the grey light of early morning, he saw Krycek silently getting dressed. Obviously preparing to sneak off.

Skinner propped himself up on an elbow. "I thought," he startled Krycek, "you said you weren't in a hurry to go anywhere. I know it's been a while, but I didn't think last night went *that* badly."

It was a long minute before Krycek answered. He didn't look back. "No." His voice held no emotion whatsoever. "It was fine."

"I see." Skinner's voice cooled. "But you got what you wanted so now you're off."

"What did you think was going to happen?" Krycek still had his back toward Skinner. 

That irritated him. 

"Well, not a one night stand. Personally I'm not very fond of those." Skinner was finding it hard to keep his disappointment under control.

Krycek made a small sound. "That's pretty much most of my experience." He move a bit closer to his knapsack. Skinner finally realized that something was not right.

"Alex. What is it, really?"

"Really?" Krycek turned, his face bleak with hopelessness. "Shit, Skinner. You're an Assistant Director at the FBI. I'm..." he shrugged "an ex-Consortium assassin. An ex-Consortium whore. What the hell are we doing here?" He bent over his own body, as if enduring a spasm of pain. "God," his voice low, rough, "you'd think by now I would know better than to want something I can't have."

He began moving to his feet, was grabbed from behind, pulled down. Skinner quickly rolled his body on top of Krycek, let his weight hold him down. Krycek struggled a bit, almost too discouraged even to try. Skinner held his arm down, waited till Krycek lay, eyes closed, throat exposed like an animal in surrender.

It dawned on Skinner, stunned him, that Krycek was expecting to be hurt.

He let go of Krycek's arm, placed his hands on either side of the man's face. "That's where we're different, you and I. I don't want much, but when I find something I do want, I go after it."

Krycek's eyes opened.

"I want you, Alex. And I don't see any reason I can't have you."

Krycek felt frustration rise in him, along with a faint hope. "There are things about me..."

"Alex." Skinner put as much honesty in his voice as he could: Krycek would need that. He chose his words carefully, hoping they would be enough. "We both have pasts. We'll deal with them when the need arises. *If* the need arises. And if it doesn't, then let it be, Alex. Let it be in the past."

"Unless, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe all you did want was a one night stand. Somehow I got the idea in San Antonio that we were making our way to something more than that."

"Alex, I would like to see if we're more than a one time fuck. Would you?" 

Alex whispered "Yes." 

And let loose his hunger.

It was not last night's love making. It was not even sex.

It was a mating, a claiming of territory.

At first, Skinner was overwhelmed, felt he was being stormed. But slowly he let loose his own restraints. He was with a man who could meet him bruise for bruise, mark for mark, strength for strength. He may have been smaller, but he was as strong.

There were no soft words, soft sounds. There were grunts, growls, occasional exclamations of pain. All unheard. All ignored.

Krycek regained enough sanity to roll on a condom, to take the time to prepare Skinner for penetration. To allow him time to adjust to his cock in his ass. Skinner was on his hands and knees, Krycek behind him. Neither of them needed the consideration they'd shown each other the previous night. Their hips pumped roughly into each other, seeking only their own pleasure, their own screaming need for release.

Though, towards the end, when Skinner shifted his weight so that he could reach down to his own cock, Krycek slumped onto Skinner's back, propping himself on his stump, reached below and slapped Skinner's hand away. "Mine!" 

They collapsed onto the sleeping bags, Krycek still on top of Skinner. Slowly caught their breaths, listening to the pounding of their hearts lessen. 

Finally, Krycek moved, disposed of the condom, settled on his left side next to Skinner who moved to face him.

Skinner licked the sweat off Krycek's face, like some sated, lethargic big cat grooming another.

Krycek, green eyes still heavy with arousal, licked Skinner's mouth. 

Skinner's hand pushed the sweat soaked hair off Krycek's face. "Alex."

Got a rumbled purr in answer.

"Alex, I don't share."

Krycek forced himself to pay attention.

"Do you understand? I don't share."

Krycek cupped Skinner's jaw. Thought very seriously. "Do I?"

"No. Is that acceptable to you?"

The smile belonged to the man he had played pinball with in San Antonio. "Yeah. Very acceptable."

Skinner pulled Krycek partially onto him, off his left side. Krycek snaked his arm back around his shoulder.

Cyrus came around the bend, grumbling to himself. If it had been anyone else but Beryl who had told him to check up on his FBI man, he would have laughed at them. The FBI man came here for peace and quiet, to be left alone. All Cyrus cared about was that the man paid him for use of the site, that he left it just as he had found it. 

Man couldn't ask for more.

But Beryl had informed him that she wanted a report before she would feed him tonight.

The two men were by the stream. The FBI man was showing the man with the knife how to cast. He wasn't doing too well. So the FBI man moved behind him, placed his hand on the other's and led him through the traditional 10-to-2 clock motion.

The man turned, said something, rubbed himself suggestively against the FBI man's body. The suggestion seemed to be appreciated.

Cyrus pursed his lips. So it was like that.

He turned to return to the path, passed the big Sports Utility Vehicle that the FBI man always rented at the airport. He spat on the ground near it.

Behind it was another vehicle. Cyrus stopped to inspect this one. It was worth inspection. A Chevy pickup. Black. Not new. Battered and repaired. Well tended. A real truck with real use. Not one of those sissified city toys like the SUV. He hated *those* things.

His dog come out from under the truck, sniffed his way over to the back tire, raised a leg and pissed on it. Jasper never did that to the FBI man's toy. Apart from an initial sniff, more of a sneeze really, the dog never went near the FBI man's toy.

Both man and animal looked at the truck with approval. Cyrus listened to the sound of laughter coming from the stream.

He shouldn't have teased Donnie so much when that computer whiz grandson of his had shown up with the pale blue BMW. Ever since then, he'd had to put up with Donnie's ribbing about the sissified city toy that pretended it was a real vehicle parked in his camp spot.

Nope, he thought, feeling quite relieved, he doubted he would have to put up with that any more.

He slapped his leg calling Jasper to him. Gave the workhorse truck a gentle pat as he walked by.

Wondered if he could talk Beryl into a glass of that prime stuff Ellie distilled.

*************************NIF*************************

 

* * *

 

Title: ACCOMMODATION (1/1) Part 7 of the EATING series  
Author: Josan  
Date: August, 1999  
Summary: In every relationship, there are accommodations necessary.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: Back to PG  
Archive: Archive/X, Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.  
THANKS: To Solan, a great beta, who always knows what I'm trying to say even when I don't.

* * *

ACCOMMODATION

Jana Cassidy, newly appointed Director of the FBI, sat behind her desk, glaring at the reason Walter Skinner was cleaning out his office today, retiring, instead of taking over as one of her Deputy Directors.

Alex Krycek bore her dislike without reaction as he had everything else that had occurred since he had arrived. He was very aware of what Jana Cassidy thought him.

She had very much wanted to have Walter Skinner as part of her team. Even though she hadn't really been able to spare him, she had even given him time off to regroup after a harrowing year, fully expecting him to come back refreshed, ready to take on his new promotion.

Instead, he had sat right where Krycek was sitting, had handed her a brief letter indicating that he was retiring as soon as it could be arranged.

She was ready to counter any explanation for his choice except the one he had finally given her: he was in a relationship with a man. And then added to the surprise by informing her just whom he was involved with.

Immediately Cassidy concluded that somehow, someway, Krycek was blackmailing Walter Skinner. Even when Skinner laughed at her demand to know what Krycek had on him.

Then she tried to point out that there were still charges of some kind pending on the man. And at that point things became just a bit nasty. Skinner agreed that while there were questions that needed to be answered, immunities were being handed out right, left and centre. And that *all* there was in this particular case was a series of questions that needed to be answered.

That Krycek was quite willing to come in and answer. And before Cassidy could interrupt, Skinner had continued: Monday through Friday, from 10 to 4, with an hour off for lunch. For no more than three months.

She scoffed. There would be no such deal. Could be no such deal. And had to admit to herself that her surprise at the situation had led her to make a rather foolish mistake. Because Skinner had also come prepared to protect his lover.

Jana Cassidy could barely contain her distaste of the man sitting in her office, but knew better than to threaten him. Skinner had made it very clear that if certain information was not to suddenly appear on posting lists around the world, information that clearly told Cassidy that Skinner's loyalties were no longer the exclusive property of the FBI, Krycek was to be treated with at least minimal respect. Monday through Fridays, from 10 to 4, with an hour off for lunch. For no more than three months.

Krycek had been accompanied to Headquarters this morning by Skinner, his last as a member of the FBI. He had personally seen to the introduction between his lover and the new Director, reminding them both that he would be picking Krycek up at four o'clock. Precisely. Then he'd left them to finish clearing out the last of the paperwork associated with his retirement.

"Mr. Krycek, I must honestly tell you that if I had to chose between the information that you purport to bring us and having Walter Skinner as my Deputy Director, you would not be sitting here." She rose from behind her desk, an elegant woman who wore power easily and well.

"I wonder what hold you have over Walter Skinner, Mr. Krycek. Be assured, I will do whatever is in my power to find out. I will defuse it. And then," her voice a threat and a promise, "I will enjoy pinning your ass to the wall." 

Krycek seemed unmoved by both. He simply reached into his suit jacket, pulled out an envelope which he silently handed to her. He watched her open it. Read it.

"Do you know what's in this?"

Krycek shook his head. "No. But since I'm beginning to know Walter's sense of humour, I can imagine."

Cassidy looked down once more at the note written in Skinner's distinctive hand: Jana. Butt out of my personal life. Walter.

She nodded to the door where two specially selected agents were waiting to escort Alex Krycek to the conference room that had been designated for his interrogation. They had just made it into the hallway when Special Agent Fox Mulder came tearing down, Special Agent Dana Scully close behind him.

"You fucking bastard!" Mulder screamed.

Ah, thought Jana Cassidy, very pleased that word had spread quickly through the building. She watched as Mulder went for Krycek.

No one was more surprised than Mulder to find himself clasped against a suited body, prothesis choking the breath out of him, the other hand exerting a great deal of painful pressure on his shoulder. He tried to free himself, only succeeded in causing the hold he was in to tighten. He quickly realized that he couldn't breathe, that this was not a Krycek he knew.

"I told you in Tunguska never to try that again, Mulder." The voice spoke calmly into his ear. The world around him was turning black.

"Let him go, Krycek!" Dana Scully had pulled out her weapon, had it aimed right at the back of Krycek's head.

"That's enough, all of you!" Jana Cassidy was livid. This was a fool's set-up. No one was going to win and there was far too much at stake. "Mr. Krycek. Release Agent Mulder." In a less authoritative voice, "I apologize for his behaviour."

Stunning all the participants in this melodrama. 

"Agent Scully, put away your weapon. Mr. Krycek was justifiably defending himself. Now then. Mr. Krycek, if you will just accompany these agents? Thank you. Agents Mulder and Scully," she growled, "my office."

The upshot of that little scene was that no one challenged Alex Krycek for the rest of the time he came in for questioning. But that Dana Scully, on being released from the Director's office took it upon herself -- with some encouragement from the Director, albeit very understated -- to charge into Walter Skinner's office to challenge him on his retirement, his "relationship" with a known killer and traitor, to offer whatever services she could provide to freeing him from whatever hold Krycek had on him. Skinner waited till she had wound down, thanked her politely, though just a bit coldly, for her concern but indicated that it wasn't any of her business. He thanked her for the support she had given him over the years, wished her well and then indicated that he wished to finish packing up his office. Alone.

That evening, at the apartment, Skinner answered the door to find Fox Mulder.

Alex sat on the arm of the couch in the living room, seemingly interested in the non-patterned carpet, silently listening.

Mulder, pacing, gesturing, could barely contain his anger. "How could you do this, sir? You know what he is! The Consortium whore!

"Sir. We think, but we don't know for sure that the Elders and their thugs are defused. Maybe this is just their way of getting in on a source of information. Did you ever think that maybe you weren't supposed to resign, that you were supposed to keep on at the Bureau and that this...this...thing" he spat out "is just a plant?

"Damn it! I know he's good in bed, sir. He was good even when he was pretending to be new to the game, when he came on to me. He must be something else now that he's had all that experience. Has he shown you yet what he learned in Hong Kong?

"And have you considered what he did to get back in so tightly with the Consortium? The Brit didn't mentor him into those ranks out of the kindness of his heart.

"Shit, Skinner, he's not worth it. Can't you see what he is?"

Walter waited until Mulder ran out of steam. "Well," he shrugged, "since you have nothing new to add to the topic, Agent Mulder, you can say goodnight and leave."

Alex was taken aback. When a frustrated Mulder left, he looked up at Walter. "Did you really know all of that?"

Walter came to stand in front of Alex. He knew that right now Alex was probably half-way out the door. He had warned Walter that his past would show up, was expecting it to put an end to this relationship they had. He didn't expect this thing between them to work out, the ex-assassin and the FBI man.

Walter carefully sought the right words. In spite of his scarred exterior, visible proof that Alex often charged without thinking about his personal safety, he had discovered that Alex protected the core of himself behind thick walls. Walter had breached those walls, but knew that Alex expected one day to have that used against him.

He cupped Alex's face between gentle hands. "Does it matter, Alex? I told you, unless we have to deal with it, the past is just that, the past. And we both knew it wouldn't be smooth sailing. That there would be things to get used to." He bent and brushed Alex's lips with his. "We're not doing too badly. We haven't driven each other crazy." Brushed across cheekbones. "We're both rather neat. Both recap the toothpaste." Across closed eyes. "So far you haven't complained about my snoring."

Alex swallowed, moved his face into position for another kiss. "It's not *that* bad," he whispered.

"We've even managed to divide up household duties not too badly." Walter moved his lips down Alex's chin to his throat.

"Still haven't decided who's going to dust," Alex offered, raising his chin to allow Walter more leeway.

"If we don't move it, it won't need dusting." That hadn't worked with his mother when he was a kid: Alex, on the other hand, seemed to accept this as logical.

"Walter." Alex's tone was too serious for what Walter's mouth was doing to him. Walter looked up. "Maybe they're right. You shouldn't have retired. You'd make a good Deputy Director."

Walter rested his forehead against his lover's. "Alex. The job of Deputy Director means longer hours, more ass-kissing than any human being should have to do, a direct line to a bleeding ulcer, medication that leads to impotency and no, thank you. I had decided I wouldn't take the promotion before you showed up.

"I'm tired of the bullshit, Alex. Of reading reports I don't give a damn about. Of long involved meetings that go nowhere. I liked being a field man. I didn't like the desk. I took it because that's what you're supposed to want: the promotions. Well, I got them, and all they've given me is stress, heartburn and an ulcer."

Walter pulled Alex into his arms, held him close. "What I want is to go fishing when I feel like it, pick up some work here and there that interests me. And before you tell me that your presence in my life is a hindrance to that, allow me to tell you that I've already been approached to do some work for a think tank." He kissed Alex on the nose, got the start of a smile from him.

"The work is interesting, not stressful, and will allow us plenty of time to get use to each other's foibles." Alex's smile grew a bit stronger. "Now where was I? Oh, yeah." He went back to nuzzling Alex's throat while his hands found their way under the sweatshirt he wore.

Alex sighed. Gave in without further protest. He still couldn't believe this was going to continue but, for whatever time it would, he was going to sit back and enjoy it. He slipped his hand down the back of Walter's jeans and squeezed his ass. Let his body fall backward onto the couch, bringing Walter with him.

The beeper on Krycek's watch went off. By now the agents questioning him knew that they had two minutes left to tie up for the day. At four o'clock precisely, Krycek wished them a good weekend, got up and left.

Jana Cassidy looked up from the paper she was reading when her driver cursed out loud. Some idiot on a big motorcycle, weaving his way around the cars stalled in Friday afternoon traffic, had slipped into the space her driver had targeted. She checked her watch. Four o'clock. Damn. She had wanted to be back at Headquarters early enough to catch Krycek before he left. Their three months were almost over and she wanted to see if she could talk him into giving them more time. In spite of her initial reluctance, she had to admit that the information he was providing was proving to be integral to their investigations.

But it was four, and Krycek was known to be extremely punctual about his departure. He often came in earlier than ten, made no objections to working through lunch, but he was religious about leaving right on time.

"David. Let me out at the front, will you?" 

Her driver grunted, pulled up next to the bike that was now also parked in the reserved space in front of Headquarters. Jana Cassidy gathered her papers, stuffed them into the briefcase her children had given her on her appointment and stepped out just in time to see Alex Krycek coming out of the building. Maybe she could catch him after all.

But then several things happened that delayed her.

Krycek was wearing his usual expressionless face when he came out. He seemed to be looking for something, must have found it because suddenly the mask dropped and his face -- there was no other word for it -- lit up. 

Smiling, he quickened his way over to the motorcycle driver who was now removing his helmet. To a Walter Skinner Jana Cassidy barely recognized: in black jeans, white t-shirt and open black leather jacket. Who reached a large hand up to cup Krycek's face, pulled him down for a very public, rather passionate kiss. 

It struck her that the two men where totally oblivious to where they were, to the people around them who either ignored them, smiled, or disapproved.

Skinner hung his helmet on one of the handlebars, reached up and undid Krycek's tie, all the while laughing at something Krcyek was telling him. He shoved the tie into the man's pocket while Krycek took off the sports coat, opened the rider's seat, took out a helmet, a black leather jacket of his own, stashed the coat.

He bent his head and Skinner fitted the helmet onto him. From where she stood, Cassidy recognized it as being similar to the one her grandson had just purchased: a very expensive version with built-in sound so that rider and driver could hear, talk to each other.

Krycek took his place behind Skinner, dropped the prosthetic hand onto Skinner's thighs, slipped his real hand under Skinner's t-shirt, running it provocatively over the man's chest. Skinner grabbed it, pulled it down to settle on his stomach. Turned on the engine and with a quick check, pulled out into the traffic.

"They're probably on their way to Mr. Skinner's cabin." Dana Scully was standing next to the Director.

Jana Cassidy looked almost stunned. "They're in love."

"Yes," agreed Scully. "Rather hard not to see that now."

"There's no blackmail involved." Cassidy turned to her agent for confirmation.

"No. None." Scully shrugged. "I didn't believe it myself. So I went to see Mr. Skinner's ex-wife, Sharon. I asked her to talk to him, to try and find out what Krycek had on him, for him to put an end to his career this way."

"And?" Cassidy began walking to the door, Scully accompanying her.

"And..."

Sharon had rung the bell to the apartment even though Walter had given her a key to it when he had moved in. Only Walter didn't answer.

"Hello. You must be Alex. I'm Sharon, Walter's ex-wife. Is he around?"

"No." The second wave, thought Alex. "Would you like to come in?"

"For a moment."

Sharon Morgan Skinner Hall was Walter's age, a tall, slim, elegant woman who managed an art gallery in the exclusive part of town. Alex waited patiently while she looked him over.

"So," she said, with a smile, "you're Walter's mid-life crisis. I've been hearing a great deal about you."

"From?" As if he couldn't guess.

"Dana Scully. She came to see me, to ask me to talk some sense into Walter. I'm always surprised that people can work with each other for years and not really know each other." She laughed suddenly. "I hope you won't mind me saying that this is so typical of Walter."

Alex responded with shifting his weight onto a hip, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," she explained, "different but sensible. I'd be far more worried if you were a 20 year old peroxide blond bimbo. It's obvious that you're not 20, and, knowing that Walter could never suffer fools, you're certainly no bimbo."

That got the hint of a smile from Alex, a relaxation of some of the tension she had felt in him since she had identified herself.

"Look, you're both old enough to know what you're doing. And it really isn't any of their business, though I don't expect that will stop them. Are you finding it hard going?"

"A bit." Alex found himself warming up to the woman. She was one of the first who hadn't reacted badly to this relationship.

"Are you going to run out on him?" Sharon watched as the question hit home. Waited quietly as Alex carefully considered his answer.

"No." Alex took a deep breath, felt a lot of the anxiety he had about all this finally settle. "No. I'm not going to run out on him."

She smiled, pleased with his answer. "Tell Walter I'll back him all the way." Besides, she owed him. He had backed her when her family and friends had been dubious over her choice of her new husband, an impoverished artist ten years her junior.

At the door she stopped, took a step to establishing a relationship with her ex's lover. "Alex. When his snoring gets to you, if you push him over right here," she poked him in the lower ribs on the left, "he usually rolls over and stops."

Alex grinned. "Thanks. I'll remember that."

"And she told me to mind my own business. That even if we didn't approve, we should have the common courtesy to leave them alone." Scully opened the door for her boss.

"It won't last," Cassidy told her. "They're too different."

But Scully wondered.

*************************NIF**************************

 

* * *

 

Title: ADJUSTMENTS (1/1) Part 8 of the EATING series  
Author: Josan  
Date: August, 1999  
Summary: The relationship from Krycek's POV   
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: Pretty much PG  
Archive: Archive/X, Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but let's not forget that imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

* * *

Adjustments

He still had nightmares.

That much hadn't changed.

The difference was that he no longer woke alone.

Often Walter woke him before he was deep in the grip of one, spooning him closer, soothing him back to sleep. Or when he woke, scream caught in his throat, Walter would pull him close, holding him tight until the trembling stopped, his heart stopped pounding, murmuring things that neither of them remembered in the morning. Then he would sleep, wrapped around Walter, knowing that he was safe.

It had taken some getting used to, going to bed each night, not just with the same body, but also in the same bed. And he found that he rather liked sleeping to Walter's snores, often in his ear as Walter liked to sleep somehow linked to him even if they hadn't had sex. No. Even if they hadn't made love. He knew about sex. He was still pretty new to love.

Which was why he probably enjoyed Walter's snoring. He had tried, as an experiment, Sharon's suggestion. And sure enough, Walter had rolled over and the noise had stopped. But he missed both: Walter's arm around him, his snore by his ear.

It had a nice steady rhythm to it. If he woke in the middle of the night, it comforted him, knowing where he was, that he was safe. That for some reason this man cared enough for him to offer him a place. Protection. A way to make reparation for the damage he'd done. And accepted him for what he was.

Not that he expected it to last. Things that good never did. Not for Alex Krycek.

It had been difficult at first. He wasn't used to staying put in one place for any length of time. He was used to furnished rooms, rarely apartments. He travelled light by necessity; unless something fit into his knapsack or could be stored in the bench locker in his truck, he kept nothing. 

He had a change of clothes, a couple of extra t-shirts, shorts, socks with him and a good suit and dress shirt in the truck. Right now they hung solitary in his side of the closet or rattled around in his share of the drawers. Past training warred with the desire to fill up his share of space, but he was still too unsure of the long run to go on a buying spree.

Still, one by one, things were beginning to show up. He now owned a pair of dress slacks, a sports coat, a couple of ties, shirts, some new dress boots. He'd appropriated Walter's old bathrobe, liking the feel of the once heavy terry now smoothed by the wear and tear of Walter's body.

His greatest pleasure, and fear, were the books he was slowly accumulating. Books were heavy, took up precious space in a knapsack. He had carried a paperback copy of Faulkner's THE SOUND AND THE FURY till it had fallen apart, held together by a rubber band. Now he had a hard copy edition -- God! a first edition! -- Walter had given him half way through the three months he was committed to the Bureau. He was almost afraid to read that copy. He had held it, just touching it when Walter had surprised him with the book. He had a paperback copy as well, but, sometimes, especially after a gruelling session at the Bureau, he would come home, pretend to read it, just for the comfort of holding it.

And that was something else he had tried hard to avoid doing: thinking of Walter's place as home. Funny how, no matter how hard he fought it, Walter had become home. Not the apartment: that was just a place. But Walter. 

More and more, Walter was becoming part of him. He had awakened one night, looked at his sleeping lover and realized that for as long as this lasted he would stop fighting this feeling of belonging -- not of being *owned* -- of belonging to someone. Because, in turn he realized, Walter belonged to him.

Which was why he put up with the petty harassments, the insinuations, the constant challenges to his veracity that were his days at the Bureau. He owed Walter this. Walter had done his best to get him protection, immunity. And besides, Walter was there, every day at four o'clock, to pick him up. No matter what his schedule was that day. To smile at him, pull him in for a kiss, no matter where they were, in the car, on the bike, in the truck. No matter what shit they threw at him at the Bureau, by the time they pulled away from Headquarters, he'd have left it behind. His personal training over the years on the run made that relatively easy.

All in all, the first few months hadn't been too difficult between the two of them. There had been adjustments. But both of them were used to analyzing and evaluating situations.

Walter took his football seriously, allowed him his soccer. Walter hated being disturbed when he was working, respected Alex's need for about an hour of quiet after being questioned all day. Walter muttered over the morning paper, even reading aloud items that irritated or particularly amused him. Alex discovered he liked being read to, offering up his own comments, reading aloud his own bits.

Walter liked a healthy breakfast, muesli, juice, coffee. Alex liked oatmeal -- the real stuff, not the prepackaged stuff -- with cream, lots of brown sugar, pecans. A rare threat in his past life, a daily pleasure in his new one. Walter liked chicken and fish, Alex red meat. He compromised readily on that one, quietly worried about Walter's cholesterol levels. Walter paid him back for that by making sure that there was always chocolate ice cream in the freezer. Chocolate anything was Alex's secret passion. Ben & Jerry's double fudge chocolate for everyday, Godiva anything for special occasions. They splurged on weekends: steaks and red wine (also good for cholesterol, Alex had read in a medical journal).

Weekends spent quietly watching sports, reading, listening to music. Or driving up to Walter's cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The only agenda being getting back in time for the 10 a.m. Monday deadline at the Bureau.

But that was coming to an end. They had begun to run out of questions and, finally, after three months, the answers were paying off for them. They went easier on him.

Jana Cassidy had asked to meet with him one Monday. She was cool but polite. Got right to the point: could he give them more time, say another month, just so that he would be available when they needed him to confirm certain findings. He agreed to think about it, but inside, he worried that this was just a ploy of some kind.

Walter reminded him that all they had agreed to was the three month timetable. If he wanted to extend it, that was his decision. Cassidy had made it clear that there would be no fallout from his saying no. Whatever Alex decided, he would back him.

So he said no. If they needed him, they could contact him -- they knew where he lived. If he had the time, he would be happy to accommodate them.

Because, miracle of miracles, he had a job offer.

The member of the interrogation team that had dealt with his deciphering of the DAT tape, his experience hacking into secure data banks had mentioned him, not by name, to an acquaintance at some local conference. Who was very interested in Alex's specialized abilities. Thomas Nash had tracked him down, called, wondering if Alex might be interested in evaluating some security programs that he and his people were putting together.

There had been one very tentative meeting in a restaurant where the two men, much to Walter's quiet amusement, had sounded each other out. That Thomas Nash was "known to authorities", out of a world fairly similar to the one Alex had left behind, meant that there were no government contacts in the future of Nash Securities. So the fact that Alex would never qualify for security clearance wasn't a problem. A second meeting, at Nash's offices, was easier. By the third, they had agreed that Alex was to take two weeks off after the Bureau's allotted time, then come in on a trial basis for two months. 

So here it was, five months after he and Walter had met up again at Beryl's and Alex had a home, a job, a life. A partner. Because, as he had told Sharon, he wasn't going to run out on Walter. And Walter, it seemed, didn't intend to throw him out.

He turned, rubbing his cheek against Walter's shoulder, both of them still wet and sticky from making love. He yawned, feeling deliciously worn out. After picking him up for the last time at the Bureau, Walter had driven out to the countryside, to a secluded B & B. There he had signed them in, pulled Alex into the far bedroom they had been assigned and proceeded to fuck him silly.

A celebration, said Walter.

Of the end of his penance.

Of the start of his new job.

Of the fact that people were beginning to accept them as a couple.

Of the fact that after five months they were still together.

Still, said Walter, in love.

Alex looked at Walter. Dared say it aloud himself for the first time.

**************************NIF*********************

 

* * *

 

From: J A Mann []  
Sent: Monday, September 06, 1999 10:34 PM  
Title: The Phone Call (1/1) Part 9 of the EATING series  
Author: Josan  
Date: September, 1999  
Summary: Walter gets a phone call.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG  
Archive: Archive/X (which will be seriously missed!), Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. And why do we have to wait until November for the season premier?  
THANKS: To Solan who betas even when I'm grumpy.

* * *

The Phone Call

They were behind schedule that morning. Walter's fault. He would start something that Alex felt needed to be finished before the day got any older.

Alex was trying to button his shirt, finish his coffee while Walter was in the shower, calling out reminders of his schedule for the day.

Of course, the phone rang.

Alex had been waiting for an answer to a query he'd tossed out, not ten minutes ago, to a colleague whom he'd managed to catch just before the man had left for the office. He picked up the phone.

"That was quick." He jammed the phone under his ear, kept on fighting the buttons.

Silence.

"Hello." Guessed it wasn't the call he had been expecting.

Still silence.

"Hello? Anybody there?" 

He was about to hang up when a woman's voice asked, "Is that Walter Skinner's residence?"

"Yeah, it is. Hang on." Alex tossed the phone onto the unmade bed, called into the bathroom, "Walt! Phone! I think it's your new secretary."

Walter came out, wrapping a towel around his hips. As he picked up the phone, "Would you stop by the dry cleaners and pick up the suits? It's on your way home." Got a nod from Alex, spoke into the phone. "Hello, Mrs. Banburry. What...Oh," his tone alerted Alex, "hi, Mom."

Alex froze in his tracks. Mom? What the hell was Walter's mom doing calling at this time of the day? And it was Thursday, not Monday. She always called every second Monday of the month, regular as clockwork, during half-time of the Monday Night Football Game. The only time, Walter explained, she could be relatively sure of finding him home. The only time he, Alex, never answered the phone.

Maybe someone was dead? thought Alex. Except Walter seemed to be doing more sputtering than anything else.

"Yes, Mom. I was..." He sat down on the edge of the bed. Grimaced. "No, Mom. Mom, I...No, Mom, that's...that's not quite...Yes, of course, Mom. Yes, well...I'll have to check....No, I'm not being...Sure, Mom."

By now Walter was rubbing his eyes the way he did when he had a headache coming on. Alex slouched against the door jamb, slowly finished buttoning his shirt, his eyes intent on his lover's face.

"Yes, Mom, I will. Yes, okay. Friday night. It'll be late, Mom, are you sure Saturday...Right. Okay. See you then, Mom."

Walter hit the off button on the phone. Looked over at Alex. "That was Mom."

"I gathered that," said Alex. "Sorry. I was expecting Peter to call back."

Walter let himself drop backwards onto the bed, rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. "Nothing to be sorry about." He turned his head, smiled in an embarrassed way at Alex. "Have you got something on for the weekend?"

Alex thought, shook his head. "Just the usual paperwork." It still tickled him that he could say something like that. "Why?"

"My mother would like us both to come up for the weekend."

Alex gnawed on the corner of his lower lip. "Us? Both of us? I thought she didn't know about us?"

Walter sat up. "Well, it seems that she does now. I hadn't told her about leaving the Bureau, but she seems to know about that, too."

"How?"

Walter sighed unhappily. "I guess I'll find out Friday night."

Alex came over to his subdued lover. He bent down and kissed him. "We. We'll find out Friday night."

************************************************  
Oh, oh!   
Just goes to show, you can never hide anything from a mother!  
How will our boys deal with this one? I wonder.  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

* * *

 

From: J A Mann []  
Sent: Tuesday, September 07, 1999 7:19 PM  
Title: THE TRIP UP (1/1) Part 10 of the EATING series  
Author: Josan, aided and abetted by Maldrake.  
Beta: Solan, who thankfully ignores my muttering.  
Date: September, 1999  
Summary: Walter and Alex on the way to Vermont   
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG  
Archive: Archive/X (Thanks, Iain, for all the time spent archiving our writing!), Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. So, okay, since when is the World Series as important as the first episode of X-Files?

* * *

THE TRIP UP

The trip to the airport began with a Friday traffic jam on the Beltway. That set them a good hour behind. It also meant that they now had to be rerouted through New York for Burlington, rather than fly directly out.

Then there was the storm. Heavy rain, winds that meant that their flight -- the plane was a DC9 -- out of New York was delayed for safety reasons. 

The car that Walter had rented had long left the lot. By the time they landed in Burlington past midnight, there was only one car left, one of those compact things that meant Walter would be driving with his chin on his knees.

Oh, and of course, just to add to the entire fiasco, on the road to Middlebury, Walter swerved to avoid a deer, ended up at a tilt on the soft shoulder. Five minutes of spinning only sank the wheels deeper into the sodden ground.

And to top that off, his cell phone had just enough power left for him to contact the emergency number, give their location, ask for a tow. At least an hour, came the staticky answer, before the phone faded and died.

By this time, they should have long ago pulled into the driveway at his mother's. Instead, Walter and Alex were sitting in a car tilted nose down in a ditch, watching the last of the lightning show the storm was putting on, just for them.

Alex knew that Walter was not looking forward to this visit with his mother. He'd been absentminded, tense since the phone call. Alex had kept silent, not wanting to add to his lover's stress. Still, now that they sat here, in the dark, in the wanning storm, he broached the one question he'd been wanting to ask.

"Walter?"

"Hum?" Walter was looking out the window, lost in thought.

"I understand why you didn't tell you mother about me, about us."

Walter's attention shifted to Alex.

"But why didn't you tell her about leaving the Bureau?" Alex slouched his back into the door, sitting sideways, left knee lying on the seat.

Walter said nothing.

"It's okay. It isn't any of my business," said Alex softly.

Walter sighed. "Actually, I don't know, Alex. I guess I just wanted some time to get used to the idea."

"If it's taken you seven months to get used to it, maybe it wasn't a good idea," offered Alex.

Walter moved, shifted his body, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd have been fine if the steering wheel had suddenly disappeared. Finally, he lowered the back of his seat, managed to sit awkwardly, but more comfortably, facing Alex. He stretched his legs out over the seat to rest on Alex's thighs.

"No," he finally said, "it was a good idea. I couldn't have stayed on and kept sane. I told you that before, and I haven't changed my mind. 

"Besides, I like what I do now. I like determining the validity of those reports. I like the fact that my opinion is valued. That the people who work at Wilson-Jones come from varied backgrounds, bring different experiences to meetings. That those meetings actually accomplish something.

"That I don't have to hide the fact that I have a lover and that my lover is a man."

He smiled at Alex. "No, I don't regret leaving the Bureau. My ulcer rarely bothers me. I sleep well," he grinned, "when I'm allowed to sleep."

Alex grinned back.

"No, all in all, I think my life is much for the better these days."

"So, then, why haven't you told your family?" 

Walter shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it. It's...it's as if I had a secret and I didn't want to share it. I wanted to keep it to myself. I've never had that kind of secret before. 

"Even when I was a kid, people used to confide in me. They knew I would keep my mouth shut. But *I* never seemed to have those kinds of secrets. On the whole, come to think of it, I was a pretty dull kid."

Alex snorted. "I doubt that."

"No. It's true. I'm the eldest and my parents depended on me quite a bit. To keep an eye on my brother and sister. To be good at school. Not to cause trouble. To do what was expected of me."

He thought a bit in silence. Alex just watched him work his way through this evaluation of himself.

"I went for football because my father loved the sport - not that I don't either - and the coaches expected a kid my size to play football. I went into the Marines because my father's father had been in the Marines. I went to Vietnam because my father expected me to do my duty towards my country.

"I went into policing because my father was a cop. The only time I think I disappointed him was when I choose to go to college in Texas rather than Chicago. But after Vietnam, I wanted to be somewhere where being a vet wasn't a capital offense and Texas was very pro the war. It made things easier for me, too, at that particular time to be far from the rest of the family.

"By then my sister Louisa had run off with the blue grass musician. And Gene had informed my father that he had no intention of serving in any military establishment and had gone off to do a stint with the Peace Corps in Africa. My father was pretty sure all those organizations were covers for the communists.

"See, I told you my life was pretty dull. I went into the FBI directly after college. Got married to a nice girl that my parents approved of and loved. My father got to see me become Assistant Director before he died. 

"The only unexpected thing I ever did until recently was divorce Sharon. And she and my mother still talk on the phone every now and then."

A car driving by slowed down. Walter lowered his window, told the driver they were okay, that help was on the way from Middlebury.

"That'll be the Labonty boys," said the man. "I drive by their place. I'll get them to hurry on up."

Walter thanked him politely. "The nice thing about small towns is that everybody knows everybody else."

"And," continued Alex, "the worse thing about small towns is that everybody knows everybody else."

Walter chuckled. "Yeah. But my mother likes it. After my father died, she moved here to be near Gene and his family. She was never that fond of the Midwest."

"Gene is the one teaching at Middlebury College?"

"Yes. Politics. And it's convenient for Ouisa and her boy. New York City is just far enough away for her to have a life of her own, close enough to visit every couple of months. My mother likes keeping in touch with her grandchildren." 

"So, why haven't you told her about the new job?"

"Maybe because it would have worried her. She's used to worrying about the others, not about me. I'm the responsible one. And I guess this move from the Bureau doesn't look, at first glance, to be very responsible."

"And then there's me," added Alex. "Definitely not responsible behaviour."

Walter leaned forward, stroked his hand across the stubble on Alex's cheek. "God, no," he grinned. "What was it Sharon called you? My mid-life crisis."

He leaned back and examined Alex by what little light there was. "Maybe that was part of it as well. Maybe I couldn't tell her any of it until I was certain of you. Because, let's face it, Alex, for a while there, there were mornings I was afraid I'd wake up and find you gone."

Alex nodded. "There were mornings you were right to think that."

"So what made you decide to stay, Alex?" Walter reached out his hand and Alex took it. Held onto it while he tried to put his thoughts into words.

"Lots of things I guess," he finally said. "There was the fact that no matter what people said about me, you stood by me. That had never happened to me before. I felt that if I left, I was betraying your trust.

"And then there was the fact that you picked me up every day at the Bureau. Like you expected me to be there. I thought if I took off from the Bureau, you'd lose face and I didn't want to do that to you.

"Then Sharon asked me if I was going to run out on you. And I told her no, that I wasn't going anywhere. I realized that I had no good reason to. That I believed you when you said you loved me. And I finally had to admit to myself that I did love you. And I wanted this to work."

Alex leaned over and met Walter half way. The kiss began as a gentle commitment, became gradually more intense. The headlights pulling up behind them broke them apart. "Then," said Alex with a glint, "there's the incredible sex."

Walter was laughing as he went out to meet the Labonty boys and their tow truck.

The Labonty "boys" would never see retirement age again. They were also tipsy. They evaluated the situation all the while nipping at an unlabelled bottle of colourless liquid. Walter worried about that a bit until it became obvious that the two old men knew what they were doing. He and Alex watched from the sidelines as the tow chain was attached, the car lifted with a squish sound from the mud, and carefully moved back onto the highway.

Then, of course, there was the careful questioning that led them to connect Walter Skinner to that Nadia Skinner who had bought the Adams place over on College Street. They plowed her driveway in the winter. Not her son's: he lived too far out of town for them to bother. Didn't the Duprey boy do his?

All the time, nipping happily away, politely offering the bottle to the two men they had rescued once they were certain of the local connection. Walter knew they would be insulted if he refused, so he brought the bottle to his lips, pretended to drink. And was glad that was all he did: the stuff had to be 100 proof!

Alex was less successful with his ploy: the bottle slipped out of the old man's hand and, as he reached to save it, the contents splashed out onto the sleeve of his jacket.

When the car finally pulled up in the darkened driveway of the darkened house, it was after two in the morning, some four hours after they had been expected. Walter rang the doorbell, wishing he had stood firm on their travelling on Saturday. It crossed his mind that maybe this was a sign of how the whole weekend was going to go.

*****************************************************  
Will Walter's mother answer the door this late?  
Will our boys have to spend the rest of the night in the car?  
How would *your* mother handle this?  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

* * *

 

Sent: Wednesday, September 08, 1999 10:32 AM  
Title: THE VISIT (1/1) Part 11 of the EATING series   
Author: Josan, aided, abetted and beta'ed by Solan and Maldrake.   
Date: September, 1999  
Summary: You're always a child to your mother.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG: Hey, get real! They're in Walter's mother's house!  
Archive: Archive/X (which will be seriously missed!), Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. I don't care: baseball is nowhere near as interesting as the last season's premier. And aren't the umpires due to go out on strike anyway?

* * *

THE VISIT

Nadia Skinner checked at the living room window before she opened the door to her eldest born and his...friend. She was fraught with worry, what with the storm, the fact that Walter hadn't contacted her. She had had visions of her son lying dead in some field in a plane crash. Or somewhere on the road. She should never have insisted that he...that they come up at night.

But here they were, late, both smelling of the local brew, the friend more than Walter. She greeted them coldly, angry at having been worried, for nothing it would seem.

Walter caught on right away from his mother's expression that he was in hot water. Shit! He was fifty, not sixteen. Still, all it took was *that* look and he was back to being a high school kid, caught sneaking in after curfew.

Alex had little experience with these undercurrents. He put on his most charming smile at Walter's introduction, held out his hand politely. Only to be ignored.

Nadia Skinner turned her back on both of them, led the way upstairs. "I'm sure that you're both tired. It being this late and all." 

Walter winced. He knew that tone. His hopes for the weekend were quickly going down the drain.

Alex followed, not knowing what to do. He was really out of his depth here. All he could hope for was that Walter would toss him a life line.

At the top of the stairs, Nadia pointed down the hallway. "Walter, I've put you in the back bedroom."

She turned to Alex. "Mr. Krycek, you're in this room. She pointed to the doorway at the other end of the hallway. "It has its own bathroom."

Walter got all those messages. He would have to go past his mother's bedroom if he wanted to see Alex, and Alex would have no reason to leave his bedroom. She had effectively isolated them.

Alex nodded his thanks, glanced at Walter who shrugged behind his mother's back.

"Walter." Nadia stood in the doorway of her bedroom, waiting for her son to move. "We'll talk in the morning," she said as he walked past her. She waited patiently until the two men had entered their respective bedrooms, closed their doors before closing her own.

Alex turned on the light in the room that had been assigned to him. His knapsack and jaw hit the floor at the same time. He was stunned into immobility.

The room was pink.

The walls were pink. The blinds and the vanced chiffon curtains were pink. The large area rug by the bed was starkly pink on the golden wood floor. 

The furniture was in the French Provincial style, white with gilt trim. But the canopy over the bed, a twin in size, was pink with flounces. The bedspread was white and pink with a pink ballerina balancing on one toe.

Gingerly, Alex moved to inspect the small bathroom. More pink, except for the white porcelain fixtures. More ballerinas on the shower curtain. Only the deep purple towels broke the colour scheme.

Wary, he went to check the sheets in the bed. Yep, more pink and ballerinas.

He sat down on the bed. The first good thing: the mattress was a firm one. Even if the bed was too small for a man of his size.

Jesus! he thought. He couldn't sleep in this room: he'd have nightmares. He tried turning off the light. Even the darkness didn't effectively hide the colour, the flounces, the ballerina.

He found himself wondering if Walter's mother was sending him a message here. Apart from the fact that she wanted to keep him away from her son.

He turned on the ballerina lamp by the bed, went to see if there was anything he could use in the closet. Ah, a *blue* blanket. Okay, pale blue, but still not pink.

He began by stripping the bedspread, then the sheets off the bed. Folded them carefully. Stashed them on the pink upholstered armchair in the corner. 

He used the bathroom, stripped to t-shirt and shorts, wrapped the blue blanket around him, and lay on the bed. As long as he stayed still, he shouldn't fall off, he thought. He reached out and turned off the light.

In his bedroom, Walter settled comfortably in the extra-long queensize bed. Between the dark green and blue sheets. That matched the bedroom's decor. And with a sigh, decided that things would go better in the morning. 

Not surprisingly, Alex was the first one up.

He'd taken a shower in the too small stall, ignoring the pink perfumed soap for the bar he still had in his travel kit. He checked his clothes for the smell of home brew: he'd understood the sniff Nadia Skinner had made when he had passed by her.

Carefully, he used old skills to make his way soundlessly downstairs. To scan the lay out of the floor.

Large living room to the left which opened into an even larger dining room. Good sized pieces of furniture, nothing delicate like in his bedroom.

>From what he'd seen of Nadia Skinner last night, Walter came by his height naturally. She had to be close to 5' 11", large-boned. Her grey hair had been braided in a long, thick plait. He had noticed that Walter had her eyes, that they had looked at him as Walter had that night on the balcony.

The kitchen in the back was also huge, obviously the most lived-in room in the house. There was a large quaker table in the middle of the place, standing on a braided rug of various hues. A rocking chair in one corner next to a small wood store. There was a box of split wood by the door that led out to the back enclosed porch.

The rest of the appliances were modern, up to date. A microwave took up one corner of the counter. He assumed the wood stove was there for nostalgic purposes, or maybe even to provide heat if the electricity went off.

Ah, a coffee maker. And ready to be turned on. Alex hoped that Walter had gotten his love of good coffee from his mother. He had. That first cup made him feel maybe this wouldn't be such a fiasco after all. Last night had been an endless list of misadventures. Walter had a sense of humour. Surely, he must have gotten that from one of his parents. Hopefully from his mother.

"I see that you've made yourself quite at home."

Alex turned from his contemplation of the back yard. Nope, he thought. Must have gotten that from his father.

Nadia Skinner entered her kitchen. She *had* expected to find it empty. She had heard the shower go on in the bedroom next to hers, but hadn't heard the man come down. The wooden floor usually creaked at the landing, as did the third step down. But there had been no sounds. 

Alex looked her over in the early morning light. She was wearing navy slacks with a grey-blue sweater. Her hair was done up in a braided chignon. She turned and caught him checking her out. So she returned the favour, silently sipping at her first coffee of the day.

He wasn't what she had expected. Though she really couldn't say what she *had* been expecting. Certainly not something so male. Certainly not compared to Teddy Burston and his partner who ran the antique store. But then, she should have known that Walter wouldn't behave in any stereotypical way.

And the man was interesting looking. Especially with that fake arm of his which he made no pretence of hiding. You had to have a certain confidence in yourself to handle it that way. To handle her obvious examination of him. 

She had to give him the eyes. Green. With eyelashes that long. Why was it that boys ended up with eyelashes like that? 

She had been worried that Walter was going to show up with something young. Most men went for younger models when they hit Walter's age. This one was certainly not young. He had the look of someone who had faced life, found it hard, shrugged and gotten on with it.

He looked, she had to admit to herself, dangerous. In spite of his attempt to look inoffensive. So, she thought, a little insecurity there. Not a bad thing.

Walter stepped into the deep freeze that was his mother's kitchen. He had wanted to be the first one up, had wanted time alone with his mother before Alex came down. As with everything else so far this weekend, those plans were a waste of time.

Alex was sitting in a chair at one end of the table, coffee in hand, looking out into the yard, that closed-in look on his face. The one that meant he was expecting the worse. The one he hadn't seen on his lover for some time. 

His mother was sitting at the other end, elbows propped up on the table, cup held in her hands. She seemed very interested in the contents of that cup.

Walter filled a mug with coffee, bent and kissed his mother's cheek as he passed her to sit next to Alex. 

Clearly drawing up the lines.

"Sorry about last night," he started. "It was a comedy of errors from the beginning." He ignored her raised eyebrow at his use of the word "comedy", explained what had happened, including the dead cell phone.

Nadia resisted the urge to ask if there had been no phones at any of the airports. She just nodded her acceptance of his explanation.

Walter took a deep breath, plunged in. "So," he said, "who told you about us? About my leaving the Bureau? I didn't think anyone from around here would know me well enough to pick me out of a police line."

"They wouldn't." In a tone that told Walter his mother felt he hadn't visited her enough. She looked from him to Alex. Didn't add anything else.

"Mom," Walter spoke softly, in a carefully firm but not impolite way, "whatever you want to say to me you can say it in front of Alex. I'll only tell him anyway." And while he was at it, "Look. I know you're not comfortable with this situation. I'm not looking for your blessing, Mom. Or your approval. Your acceptance will be enough."

"Ellie Crankshaw." Nadia decided to ignore the rest of his little speech.

"Who?" Walter really didn't know. "Who is Ellie Crankshaw?"

"You'll probably remember her better as Ellie Davis. She married John Crankshaw, just after graduation." And watched as her son mentally went through a list of people from his past.

"Ellie Davis?" And then he had it. "Are we talking about Snoopy Davis? From high school?" Walter was incredulous. "What the..." he caught himself: his mother had never allowed swearing under her roof. He tried again. "How..." But he was flabbergasted.

Nadia felt just a bit of pleasure at seeing her son flustered. Alex just looked surprised.

"Seems she was chaperoning a school trip to DC. Her youngest has just started high school. They were in front of the Hoover Building when she recognized you. On a motorcycle. Said you were looking quite rough. And that you kissed a man right there, in public. Right in front of everybody. Quite passionately. She was scandalized. There were after all impressionable children in the area."

Walter glanced over at Alex who met the look with studied innocence. Nadia understood that neither of them was embarrassed at having been seen.

"So, Ellie Crankshaw was so upset by your behaviour, that she called FBI Headquarters, asking to speak to you. I think she intended to give you a piece of her mind."

"She never had a piece to spare," muttered Walter.

"Well, she informed me, she wasn't all that surprised to hear you weren't *with* the Bureau any more. Considering your behaviour and all. And she had been told by one of the guides that there had been a whole lot of changes at the FBI, among other departments, lately. It didn't surprise her. That she knew morals in the Capital were just ever so loose." Nadia did a very good imitation of Ellie Davis Crankshaw. "But she had never thought that any son of mine would be involved in such things."

Nadia watched her son swear to himself. Of all her children, he was the one who respected her rules the best.

"She was very sympathetic." In a tone that indicated Ellie had been anything but. "She hoped that no one in Middlebury would find out about the disgrace my son had brought upon his nation."

Alex couldn't believe that line, snickered. Choked on it when Nadia turned *that* look onto him.

"I'm sure," she continued, "that hasn't stopped her from telling anyone who will listen to her back home."

There was dead silence in the kitchen.

Walter rubbed his face with his hands. He fought an overwhelming urge to go beat up Snoopy Ellie Davis Crankshaw.

"She also said that she has a cousin who lives in DC. Who just co-incidentally works for the Department of Justice. Who had no trouble finding out just who this man you kissed in public was."

She now had Alex's full attention along with Walter's. And was suddenly very happy that Ellie Crankshaw was safely located in the Midwest.

"Alex Krycek, it seems, has quite a dubious reputation. Unfortunately for Ellie, that's all her cousin would tell her. Something about secrecy."

Nadia held Alex's eyes. She had brought up two sons and a daughter, been married for 43 years to one of those cold-eyed Sheriffs: all of whom she could stare down. 

"So, Mr. Krycek, just how did you meet my son?"

"Mom," Walter started, but Alex and Nadia just ignored him.

"Since this family is so keen on football," Alex hadn't missed all the photos in the hallway downstairs of Walter, another youth in football uniforms, a girl in a cheerleading one, "you could say I was on the visiting team. Walter and I got to beat each other up a few times."

"Is that what happened to your arm?"

"Mom..." 

"No, Walter had nothing to do with that. Just my own stupidity. I trusted someone I shouldn't have."

"So, just how did you and my son come to be...a couple?"

Alex's expression turned feral. Nadia nearly let his eyes go but held on. "I killed him."

"Alex." Only to be ignored. This battle was between Alex and Nadia and neither of them acted as if Walter was even in the room.

"Is that what you do, Mr. Krycek? You kill people?" She thought he was lying.

"Yes. Among other things. That's what I *used* to do."

She understood that he wasn't. She found her heart was pounding: what was Walter, *her* Walter doing with such an animal? 

"You certainly couldn't be very good at it," she sneered. "Walter seems to be here in this room, hale and hearty." 

"Oh, but it's just because I *am* so good at it that he is."

Walter couldn't believe this conversation.

"Really? Just how so?"

*That* was enough. "Alex!" Walter's voice snapped like a whip. "No!" 

The whip cut the line of contact between the two combatants. Alex turned his head slightly towards Walter. Walter reached out, placed his hand on Alex's fisted one. "No," again, softly.

Nadia watched her son and his lover. Watched as the danger drained out of the man who was fighting her for her son. As his fist loosened, his hand turning to clutch the fingers resting on it. As their hands linked together.

Whatever was in their past, it had forged a bond between these two. She could ignore it and lose her son: she had no illusions whom Walter would pick if she forced him into a choice. Or, she could accept that Alex Krycek, whatever he was, was an integral part of her son's life. As Walter had said, all he was looking for from her was acceptance. Not approval. Not her blessing. 

Alex turned to face her. "Sorry." His mouth softened into a smile. "He's bigger than I am." Hand still in Walter's, he stood up. "Look, it would be better if the two of you spoke without me here. I'll go for a walk."

Nadia also stood up. "Sit down, please. Alex." She waited until he did. She went over to the fridge, took out a pan, placed several large cinnamon and raisin rolls on a plate, popped it into the microwave. She started making a fresh pot of coffee. Walter got up, went to get plates and cutlery, butter to put on the table.

"We should never have started this on empty stomachs," said Nadia. She pulled eggs and several containers out of the fridge, began putting together scrambled eggs. Alex wisely stayed put, and quiet.

When everyone had been served, had begun eating, Nadia explained, "She called me Naddy." 

Alex didn't understand, but Walter did. And groaned. 

"I *hate* being called Naddy." Nadia explained to Alex. He nodded. Not that he ever would have thought of calling her that.

She looked at Walter. "This is all Louisa's fault, you realize. Don't you remember, that cartoon Ouisa drew of the yearbook people?"

Walter shrugged no. Alex kept on stuffing his mouth with eggs: Walter had picked up his cooking skills from his mother. He wondered if the recipe for the rolls was a secret.

"She drew her as an anteater. You know, with the long nose. I mean, it was bad enough that neither you nor Gene picked up on the fact that she wanted you. Either one," she addressed Alex, ignoring Walter's surprise --sometimes her children were incredibly thick -- "she didn't care which. But to have that cartoon make the rounds through school, even after the principal had refused to allow it to be used in the yearbook. Well, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when she called."

She took a sip of coffee. "So, Alex, what is it that you do these days?"

As Alex brought his mother up to date on his new career, Walter let go the tension that had been building up in him. As a kid, whenever he had brought a new friend home to meet his mother's approval, he could tell by the tone of her questions whether or not that friend would ever be welcomed again. Somehow Alex had passed that test. Nadia was sincerely interested in the work Alex was doing. 

And Alex was politely answering all the little questions she was sneaking in as to his intentions, his ability to pay his share, the usual questions his mother snuck in whenever one of them had brought home a potential mate for parental inspection. It suddenly struck Walter how much his mother had been in charge of the household and family even though his father had supposedly been the Head.

When they had finished cleaning up, Alex put on his jacket, informed them that he wanted to check out the neighbourhood. Nadia asked him if he would mind picking up the papers at the bookstore, gave him the directions when he said no, not at all.

Alone with her son, she directed him back into the kitchen where she made him submit to an interrogation that would have done the FBI proud. She had him squirming a few times -- well, that was a mother's job, no matter how old her children got to be. 

In the end, after playing the guilt line "Did you not think I would understand, Walter?" followed by a touch of "I would think by now that you would know all I ever wanted for you, for any of my children, was to be happy", she finally took pity on her son, seriously agreed with his decision to leave the stress and strains of the FBI behind for the equally respectable work at Wilson-Jones.

She even accepted his explanation about why he hadn't told her about Alex. Well, she thought to herself, watching his expression carefully as he talked about his lover, at least he's in love. Listening to him she realized that he also had very few illusions about his choice. But that was who he wanted. Well, his relationship with Sharon had lasted seventeen years. This one had as good a chance of lasting as long.

That didn't mean she was going to let Alex go without having a little talk with him. In fact, this afternoon would be ideal. Gene wanted to talk to Walter alone about this. Because, of course, Ellie had contacted him as well. That anteater picture had been far too kind.

Gene, in fact, put a bit of a damper on her plans: he showed up at the house just as they finished lunch. He was thinner than Walter, didn't have the same shoulders, had the same hair line. He shook hands with Alex, greeted his brother with a questioning shrug, announced that he wanted Walter's advice about some lumber he wanted to buy and took his brother away, leaving Alex alone with Nadia.

They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Nadia sighed. Alex watched, that look from before breakfast on his face again.

"I just have a couple of questions I want to ask," she said. "Do you love him?"

"Yes." Nothing more. 

Nadia found she didn't doubt his sincerity.

"Are you going to hurt him?"

"God, I hope not." He shrugged. "Look, I'm new at this. I don't know. You're the one with the experience. Am I going to hurt him?"

Nadia had to give him his honesty. "Are you asking me that as Walter's mother, or as someone who spent most of her life in love with one man?" 

Alex thought before answering. "As both."

"Yes. As both. But you'll be hurt, too. It's unavoidable in a relationship. It's how you deal with it that makes the difference."

Nadia smiled at her new...what should she call him, her son-in-law? Alex recognized that smile from Walter: it meant someone was in for it. "Would you like to look at some photos I have of Walter?"

Alex wondered if it were really that easy to be accepted. "Is there one of him on a bear rug?" he smiled back.

Nadia laughed. "As a matter of fact...and he just *hates* it."

**************************NIF*************************

 

* * *

 

Title: ALEX'S STORY Chapter 12 of the EATING series.  
Author: Josan  
Beta: Solan  
Date: September, 1999  
Summary: Alex talks about his past. IT ISN'T NICE.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: NC-17  
WARNING!!!!!!!! SUGGESTED RAPE, ABUSE WARNING!!!!!!!!  
Archive: Archive/X, Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. They should treat them better 

* * *

ALEX'S STORY

Walter came back from "giving his opinion on the lumber Gene wanted to buy" -- actually coffee and conversation up at the college cafeteria -- to find Alex and his mother laughing over family pictures. At least with Sharon, his mother had waited a good year into their marriage to pull out the family photograph albums. She knew how he hated those early ones when he was all ears and nose.

Still, he did get his back when he went to get something out of Alex's knapsack and saw the pink ballerina room. His mother looked slightly embarrassed, told him to move Alex's things into his room. 

She was half way down the stairs when he said, "Mom." She turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Thanks, Mom." And knew she understood that it was for more than suggesting the move.

Now awake, because he often found it difficult to sleep in a strange bed, Walter was propped up on an elbow, examining the face of the man sleeping next to him, in the over-long queensized bed in his mother's house.

"What are you looking at?" Alex's voice was thick with sleep.

"You. I like looking at you when you're not aware of me. Call it a quirk of mine." Walter passed his thumb gently over the stubbled cheek. Alex made a throaty sound, moved so that he lay partially on Walter, snaking his hand around Walter's shoulder. He nestled his face in the crook of Walter's shoulder, his stubble scratching as he made himself comfortable. 

Walter cuddled him closer. Seven months ago, Alex would have pulled away from the embrace, would never have initiated it.

"Well" sighed Walter, "not a bad weekend, all things considered."

Alex made another of those throaty sounds of agreement. Then added, "Didn't think it would be so easy."

Walter scoffed. "Yeah, well, you didn't get the gestapo treatment when she got you alone. Still, all things considered, fairly easy." He rubbed his cheek against the dark head. "Will it be easy with your family?"

In all the time they had been together, Alex had never mentioned his family, his life before his working with the FBI. Walter didn't know if this was because Alex didn't feel it was important or because he just didn't want to talk about it. He didn't intend pushing, but still, this was an opportunity to bring the subject up, and he was curious.

Alex grew very still. Walter figured that the hint was enough, that it wasn't going to go further tonight.

When Alex began speaking in a monotone, Walter just kept his mouth shut. He realized quickly that this wasn't easy for Alex, and, now and then, for himself. 

"My mother died I was twelve. She hadn't had an easy time being pregnant with me. She'd nearly died when I was born. My father couldn't understand how such a puny baby could cause so much trouble. I barely weighed five pounds at birth; he was used to babies that weighed in closer to ten. Like my sister and my brothers. Like the ones she lost.

"My brothers are about ten months apart in age, about eighteen months older than me. My sister is six years older. All three of them were about twice my size when they were twelve. My father called me 'the runt'. I don't ever remember him using my name. He's a big man, over six foot six. Like my brothers. Back then they all easily weighed in the 250 pound range.

"After she died, the beatings started. Usually around pay time. He got paid twice a month and so twice a month he beat me. I got to be good at not being home when he arrived. At sneaking in after he'd gone to bed. I think he thought the beatings would make a man out of me.

"I hid out in the library a lot. That really bugged him. Books were girl things. Men, real men, didn't waste their time with that sort of thing. My brothers sure didn't. They both repeated grades. But that may also have been because the football coaches liked the size of them. And the fact that they liked to use their muscle.

"I was the family geek. I got good marks at school. Hell, I loved going to school. Some of the teachers really liked having a kid in their classes who actually read ahead for assignments. I know some of them were nice to me because they felt sorry for me. I didn't have any friends because my brothers thought it was fun to intimidate anyone who got friendly with me.

"By the time I hit the last year of high school, I was on my way to a full scholarship. I was even a full year ahead of schedule because I did some courses independently, under teacher supervision. 

"My brothers were in the final year classes as well. Except I was in the brown-noser ones and they were in the bozo classes.

"I almost made it out."

It took a long while before Alex continued. Walter said nothing, just held him a bit tighter. It was up to Alex to continue if he wanted to; all he could do was listen.

Finally Alex took a deep breath and took up his story, speaking quickly as if telling it that way would make it easier.

"Three weeks before graduation, I had a line on a full scholarship at the state university. Just needed to keep those final grades up there.

"That night, my father was out somewhere. My brothers and their pals were boozing downstairs. My sister and I were in our bedrooms, doors locked. Like they usually were when there was a drinkfest downstairs.

"A couple of the pals broke my door down, dragged me down the stairs. They announced that it was time the fag got a taste of what was waiting for him in the real world. 

"My brothers just stood there, laughing. God, what an idiot I was! I actually thought they would stop it before... 

"I know I screamed. Loud enough and long enough for a neighbour to call the cops. I was unconscious by the time they arrived. I still don't know if my two brothers took a turn in me. I think most of their pals did."

"Jesus! Alex!" Walter whispered, trying to hold him closer; Alex rubbed his cheek against his shoulder as if seeking to increase contact. He kept on.

"I wrote my final exams from a hospital bed. Didn't do very well. One of the guidance counsellors wrote a letter to the university explaining my low marks were due to a severe accident that had occurred just before exams. They didn't give me a full scholarship, but a partial one. Said they would upgrade if my first year marks were acceptable.

"My father came to see me. Once." Alex paused. "Told me I had brought shame onto the family. The cops had never had to come to his house before. He hit me. One of the nurses saw him, told him to stop hitting his son. 'Son?' said my father. 'What son? My sons are at home. This one is my daughter.' 

"That was the last time I saw him.

"I got my sister to bring over my things from my bedroom. The counsellor was taking me home with her until I could leave. I had about a thousand dollars hidden in a book -- it had taken me two years to earn that money without my father or my brothers finding out and taking it -- something to live on until I could get a job. My sister must have found the money, because it wasn't in the book when I looked for it. And she left town the same day by bus.

"The counsellor gave me a couple of hundred to tide me over and I found a really cheap room to live in. The scholarship only covered tuition, not books, supplies. Back then, computer courses didn't come cheap. And I thought I was real lucky to find two jobs to pay for everything.

"And, for a while, it worked. I think I slept maybe three hours a day, between balancing jobs, school. But I loved it. Even the smells, the noises of the rooming house didn't bother me.

"But then one night I got mugged, lost my money and missed a couple of nights' work. I lost that job. Finally I convinced the guy to give me another chance. He did, but he paid me under the table, and a lot less than before. It was a pizza place and he told me to take the left-overs as part of my pay. At least, it cut down on my food bill, but even today, I can't stand the stuff."

Walter made a mental note to himself about that.

"It was harder and harder to pay attention in class. I kept on falling asleep. My marks were going down. I knew I was losing the scholarship." 

Alex bitterly mocked himself, his voice grew harsher. "I started thinking my father was right: I was a fool to think I could do this."

"Then, one night, some guy offered me $25 for a blow job. I'd had lots of guys come on to me, but this time I thought, What the hell, why not prove my father right? I took him up on it. I wasn't very good. I'd never done anything like that before. He was pissed off until he found out I was a 'virgin'. Well, in my mind, I still was. I had never done this before voluntarily.

"Then he offered me $50 to let him fuck me." He waited for Walter to say something. 

Walter moved his hand, just stroking, warming the tensed back; Alex's body was beginning to feel cooler against his. He didn't want to speak, to break into Alex's thoughts. He didn't know what to say. This was hard enough for Alex, he didn't need the addition of dealing with his anger at the situation.

"I needed the money. My rent was due and I didn't have it. And just to add to the whole thing, I'd begun growing. I must have grown six inches that year. And not just my height. My shoes didn't fit any more. Every time I turned around, there was another expense I hadn't counted on.

"After that, I hustled. Just enough to make it. I was pretty naive there, too. I learned the hard way not to hustle on weekends. The hookers didn't like it, complained to their pimps. 

"Mid-week was okay. It was pretty dead, and I found myself a spot on the street that got me at least one trick every time I stood there, if I waited long enough.

"Then I got beaten up again, this time by some of the hookers. Because, it turned out, I wasn't charging enough. I was charging just enough to make up the shortfall. The new rate meant I could quit my jobs. I caught up on my sleep, started bringing my marks up. But not high enough. I lost the scholarship. But I made enough hustling in bars that summer to take a summer course, to pay the first half of the year, buy my books, buy some clothes that fit. I used my room for clients who wanted more than a blow job. or didn't want to do it in the car. Eventually, I got thrown out of there. But I found another room, closer to the action with a landlord that didn't care what went on in the rooms so long as he got his rent money and a percentage."

Alex felt he had to try and explain, even if Walter didn't understand. "Once classes started, I only hustled when I needed the money, usually with my regular johns, guys I saw maybe once a month. They're the ones who paid for food, for those unexpected extras. 

"Just before mid-terms that Christmas, this limo-type car came cruising down the street. I was waiting for one of my regulars, but he hadn't shown up. The driver seemed to be looking for a particular type. He stopped in front of me, nodded towards the back door. 

"There was a guy inside. Older."

Walter's gut clenched. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

"He looked me over and told me to get in. We negotiated price. I had taken a chance that the limo, the driver meant the guy had money. We settled on $200 for the night.

"The driver pulled up to a motel and all three of us went into this room. I made a bit of a fuss. Told him the deal was for one man, not two. He said there was only going to be one: the driver. He just wanted to watch.

"I didn't have any experience with a watcher. I wasn't sure how that worked. Before I could say anything, the man took out his wallet, started pulling out hundreds. Ten of them.

"I remember thinking: a thousand dollars. Shit! If I were careful, that would mean I wouldn't have to hustle for some time. So I did as the driver asked and we gave the man his show. He just smoked the entire time we performed."

Dear God! Walter closed his eyes, rubbed his cheek against the dark head resting so still on his shoulder.

"When we were done, the driver got dressed and left. I started to get dressed too but the Smoker stopped me. Reminded me it was for the night. He told me to stand in front of him. He looked me over, made me turn around, bend forward. He never touched me.

"He called me by name. That scared the shit out of me because I'd never told him and he'd never asked. He said he had a proposition for me. In return for paying all my expenses: that meant tuition, books, living quarters, food, clothes, even a bit of spending money, I was to make myself available to him two weekends a month, Friday after classes to 6 a.m. Monday. He would take into consideration exam time: he wouldn't make use of me then. Same thing if I had a major assignment due. He'd have to check on that, of course, but he wanted me to do well.

"I would also give him any time off from regular classes. Holidays, reading week. We'd discuss the summers when we came to them.

"That way, I could spend whatever time he didn't need me on my studies. I had been recommended to him by someone at the university. I had brains, he'd been told, but was wasting myself, just trying to stay alive. He hated to see a bright mind fail because certain advantages weren't there. He liked to think that this proposition would offer me the advantages I needed. That he liked giving deserving students a chance. He wasn't asking that much from me in return.

"He gave me five minutes to think over his proposition.

"I took it." His voice scorned, "Why not? It wasn't any different than what I was doing right then. 

"He was smart about it. He played me well. We went back and cleaned out my room. He already had an apartment. Not in a fancy part of town where I would have felt like a kept toy. But a regular, furnished one-bedroom apartment, in an older part of town. A nice quiet building in a nice quiet district. No drug pushers. No loud parties. No one being beaten up. No whores with their johns.

"No smells.

"He told me he'd see me after exams. He had given me the thousand at the motel, told me to keep that for myself. Gave me another thousand for food and things. I promised him I'd keep an accounting of all the money I spent. He seemed to find that funny." 

Alex was quiet for a while, remembering the initial pleasure of having a decent place for himself, peace and quiet, feeling safe for the first time in his life.

"I must have taken a dozen showers those first days. All the hot water I wanted, at any time. Clean sheets. The place came with a washer and dryer. And he did as he promised: he left me alone to get through mid-terms.

"That was something else I wasn't used to: the quiet in the building. I could pull an all-nighter and not have to stuff cotton in my ears. 

"God," his voice held the hint of a smile, "I *loved* that place." 

Then the bitter mocking tone came back. "He certainly had done his homework on me.

"He and the driver came for me as I got back to the apartment after my last exam. He asked me how they had gone. Seemed truly interested in my evaluation of the exams.

"We drove a couple of hours out of the city. To this really nice cottage by a lake. He introduced me to the three men that lived there. He told me they were going to provide me with some instruction that I would find useful. That he'd pick me up in a couple of weeks.

"I almost panicked there. He hadn't mentioned this as part of the deal. But the guys went out of their way to put my mind at ease. And they did teach me. All sorts of useful skills. And not just for servicing a client. They taught me how to defend myself. With my hands. With a knife. One of them even insisted I learn to shoot a handgun. They thought it was funny that I didn't know how to drive, didn't have a driver's license. They gave me lessons in that, too.

"When the Smoker picked me up, he told me that he wanted me to impress some old competitor of his, and dropped me off at this guy's house. The driver picked me up the next morning, took me home."

"And that's the way it worked. I didn't often see the Smoker. Usually his driver picked me up, drove me to the john's, picked me up later.

"At the end of that school year, I had my marks back up where they should have been. Convinced him to let me take a couple of courses in the spring term, another couple in the summer term to pull my grade average up. He said he liked that initiative in me. 

"Just as classes began that fall, I came home from the library to find him in my living room. Before I could say anything, he pointed to the table in the dining area. The latest in top of the line PCs was set up on it. In recognition of the fine work I had been doing in school.

"Jesus, did he know me!" Alex actually gave a bit of a laugh. "Knew that no one had ever given me anything for something my brain did. My teachers had encouraged me, but never anything like this.

"He reminded me that he liked to reward good work. 

"So, I gave him good work. In school and out of it. He never mentioned the little jaunts the driver took me on. Only showed up to compliment me on school work, to take me out to supper to show he was interested in me. To give me another reward. Like a car. Not a new one, but one that was just sporty enough. He even arranged for a local mechanic to show me how to maintain it.

"The final month of my final year he came to see me again. Before he could say anything, I thanked him for all his support. Told him I realized that whatever work I had done for him away from school probably didn't cover the amount he had spent on me. I told him I would like to know how much I owed him, that it may take a while, but I would pay him back when I got a job. Thanks to him, my job potential was excellent. It probably wouldn't take that long to pay him back.

"Fuck, I was so very proud of myself for making that offer to him." He was quiet for some time. Then scorned, "Jesus! What a *fucking* idiot!" 

That was the last emotion he showed for the rest of his story. He spoke as if he were reporting an incident to a superior, some unimportant thing.

"He smiled at me as he lit up. Said, no, don't worry about that. Just finish off the year with my usual proficiency. I had the apartment and everything else till the end of the month.

"I remember being very grateful. He just smiled.

"They picked me up on my way home from the last exam. They took me back to the cottage. Instruction was...different this time. When he came to see me, it had only been a week, but it seemed like forever to me.

"He informed me, with that smile of his, that I belonged to him. To do with as he pleased. He hoped that I understood the situation. Oh, and that since a particular skill of mine had appeared over the week, my ability to endure fairly high levels of pain, I was going to get a couple of days' specialized instruction in that area.

"I don't remember being moved. I came to in a dark room, no windows, no lights. A sort of pad as a mattress. No clothes, nothing to cover myself with. Once a day, two of them would come in, cuff me to four rings on the floor, face down, spread-eagle, and leave me there. For hours.

"When they released me to go back to my mat, they would give me food and water, watch me eat and take the bowls away. There was a hole in one corner to use as a toilet.

"One day, they brought me out, put me in another room. Still no windows, but this time a light that came on for about eight hours at a time, a bed with linen, some clothes. There was a small bathroom with a shower. Regular meals. The next day, they brought in a box with books. The sort that I liked to read.

"They left me there for three more days, then they put me back in the first room, spread-eagled on the floor.

"The Smoker came at some point. Told me it was up to me to decide which room I wanted to stay in while I was housed in this particular location.

"He gave me five minutes to think it over.

"A week later, he moved me to another house, this time the room had windows, behind bars, but better than what I'd had before. He sent me out to service a variety of people, none of the ones I had serviced before for him. If I came back the worse for wear, he had a physician look me over. 

"When he realized that I understood the situation, he moved me again, to another house, into a room that had no bars.

"There was always a debriefing when I came back. He wanted me to describe the rooms I had been in. The attitudes of the johns. What had I heard? What could I infer?

"He started suggesting that I look for specific things. He gave me a small camera to use when I found them. Sometimes he wanted me to bring things back. Left it up to me as to the manner of the bringing back. 

"Then he just told me to look around and see what I could find. If he liked what I brought back, there would be a new book. A printout or a disc of a computer program he wanted me to hack into. A tape to decipher. Because he didn't want me to lose those skills either.

"If he didn't like what I brought, or if I hadn't found what he wanted...well, he had a couple of drivers who enjoyed 'applying incentive', as he called it.

"The one time I tried to get away..." He took a deep breath. "Well, let's just say I learnt my lesson and never tried it again.

"Then one day, about eighteen months after I'd been taken, he called me into his office, handed me over to Peskow. Told me he'd see me in six months. After my new training. Peskow took me to Russia. When I came back, the Smoker informed me I had been accepted at Quantico.

"You know the rest."

Alex didn't speak again after that. It took Walter some time to realize that he had fallen asleep. 

He spent the rest of the night, holding tightly onto Alex as he thought over what Alex had told him.

It was dawn before he fell asleep. 

*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: REASSURANCE (1/1) Chapter 13, and the final chapter of the EATING series.  
Author: Josan  
Beta: Solan  
Date: September, 1999  
Summary: Walter lets actions speak louder than words.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: NC-17, for the sex  
Archive: Archive/X, Ratlover, Gossamer. Any others if you ask: just so I know where this is travelling to.  
Comments:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. They should treat them nicer.

* * *

REASSURANCE 

Even Nadia noticed that there was something different about Alex the next morning. 

He was courteous, but seemed remote. More like an observer than a participant.

Walter recognized the Alex from long ago. He knew this Alex was expecting repercussions from his revelations of the night. He had an idea how to handle the situation, but they would have to be home before he could implement any action.

They were leaving after breakfast anyway. They would be home in the afternoon, time enough to deal with Alex before he went to work the next day.

Alex thanked Nadia for allowing him to visit. Let Walter make his good-byes privately while he waited in the car.

"Walter. What's wrong with Alex?"

Walter turned to look at his lover, staring blankly out of the front windshield.

"He's Russian," said Walter. 

Nadia countered that with a raised eyebrow.

"Means he sometimes gets depressed over things that aren't that important. He'll be okay by tomorrow." He kissed his mother's cheek. "Take care."

He was partially down the walkway when he stopped, turned and looked at Nadia watching him. He came back to the porch, stood at the bottom step. "Mom?"

"Yes, Walter."

"Do you still love me?"

Nadia was horrified. Not a demonstrative person by any means, she reached out to her eldest child, gently clasped his face between her hands. "Oh, Walter! *Of course* I still love you. I'll *always* love you. You're my child."

Walter leaned in to hug her tightly. He hadn't meant to upset her. "I really lucked out when I picked you for a mother, didn't I?" That gave her time to get herself under control. 

"Yes, you certainly did." She hugged him in return, rubbing her cheek against his head.

Walter kissed her again. "Love you," he whispered.

Nadia watched him get into the car. She walked over to Alex's side, waited until he rolled down the window. The lack of life in his eyes worried her.

"Do you have a good memory, Alex?"

"Yes, ma'am." Alex didn't know why she wanted to know.

She recited a phone number. Walter cringed. Alex repeated it.

"Think you can remember that?"

"Yes, ma'am." Alex still didn't know where this was going. Walter did.

"Well, then, Alex. The next time your coming down becomes a 'comedy of errors'" she smiled at Walter, "I hope you will remember the number and make your way to one of those old-fashioned things called a telephone booth. And call me to let me know you'll be late."

Walter groaned.

"Can I count on you to do that, Alex?"

Alex nodded, not certain if he were promising something he would never have occasion to do.

"I'll see you both at Christmas." Nadia said firmly, stood back from the car, waved them away.

Alex was quiet all the way to the airport. Never made a sound throughout the flight, the one direct flight to DC. Not even on the way home.

Walter let him be, not intruding on his thoughts, hoping that Alex could work things out for himself.

By the time they opened the door to the apartment, Walter knew he would have to take matters in hand.

Alex went in first, dropped his knapsack on the floor, the bag of cinnamon-raisin rolls on the table by the door. He started turning around, to say something to Walter.

He got as far as opening his mouth.

Walter's was on top of his, aggressively plundering.

Alex was pushed to the wall by the door, Walter never letting up his assault of Alex's mouth.

His hands were just as aggressive: they were at his jeans, pulling down the zipper, slipping in, freeing his cock. 

Alex made some sound that vibrated into Walter's mouth. Could have been protest. Could have been encouragement. Walter didn't care.

One arm was holding Alex against the wall, the other hand was pumping his cock. When he was satisfied that it had caught on to the game, Walter dropped to his knees, took the hardening cock into his mouth and proceeded to give Alex the type of blow job he had picked up from the man himself.

Alex was totally unprepared for the attack. He wanted to have a discussion with Walter, but right now, he doubted he could remember what about.

He came quickly, barely managing to stay upright.

Walter swallowed, gave Alex's cock a last suck, and released him. Watched, very satisfied with himself, as Alex's legs stopped holding him and he slid to the floor, Walter between his legs.

Walter leaned in and kissed his bemused lover again, gently this time. "We've got to do something about that," he said, sitting back on his heels.

"Hm?" All Alex could contribute.

"The noise you make when you come. Not all the time, you know. I like hearing it. But for when we visit my mother. You're just going to have to be quieter, Alex. Because I'm not going this long again without having you. It makes me aggressive. And you certainly can't go this long either." At Alex's questioning look, he explained, "You get all Russian on me. You know: the stereotypical depression. You start expecting the worse. You go all quiet."

He caressed Alex's thighs back and forth with his hands. "You even had Mom worried about you. And believe me, Alex, you don't want that. I managed to fend her off this time, but she's worse than a terrier when she wants to know something."

The worry was back in Alex's eyes. Walter could see he wanted to say something, so he kissed him again. Played with his mouth as his hands played once again with his cock.

With careful manoeuvring, Walter got Alex up the stairs and into bed. Alex was slower to arouse, but that suited Walter: he wanted to make very certain that Alex felt loved. And he waited till what he thought was the right moment to make his point.

Alex was on his back, arching his hips into the rhythm Walter had established, wanting it to go faster as he always did. Walter was trying hard to control his own reactions when, fully in Alex, he stopped moving, held the man's shoulders down as he called his name. It took a moment or two to get his attention. Alex struggled against Walter's hands, finally opened his eyes to find Walter's eyes just above him.

"You're going to listen to me, Alex. About last night." 

And saw fear, quickly subdued, flash over his face. Alex threw his chin up, as if waiting for a blow. 

"I told you once that the past was exactly that, the past. That it would stay there. 

"Alex, I'm sorry about your family, about what happened to you. I understand why you tried to survive the way you did. I even understand that you were ripe pickings for Spender. If he were still alive, I would have no trouble hunting him down, bringing you his head on a silver platter.

"And thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. For taking the chance of telling me. I know you did it because you love me. Because I love you."

Alex's lower lip was caught between his teeth. Walter bent down, kissed it loose.

"Alex, everything that happened has brought you to this place, this point in time. If you had had a normal family, a fair chance at life, we would never have found each other. Never loved each other."

Walter smiled down at Alex, used a gentle hand to smooth the hair off his forehead. He kissed him again, with more insistence this time. Alex hesitated, responded almost timidly. Walter moved his hips, just enough to remind them both of what they were doing. He raised his head.

"I certainly wouldn't be here, between your legs, my cock up your ass. And you wouldn't be lying here, waiting for me to make you come."

Walter grinned at his lover. "I'd miss that." He began moving again, slowly, drawing out every sensation he could so that Alex's hips rose to encourage him. He put a hand out for support, took Alex's hand in his other. Placed them on Alex's cock. Together they established a rhythm until Alex existed only where their hands worked his cock, where Walter's cock stroked inside his ass.

When he came, he screamed Walter's name. Walter grinned, rather a feral grin, at the sound and let himself come.

He pulled his lover close, watched as Alex fought off the sleep brought on by intense orgasm. "I love you, Alex. Remember that. No matter what, I love you."

Alex stopped struggling against his fear of being alone and despised again. Let it go as he curled his body around Walter's, felt a big hand cup his head. He sighed, rallied enough energy to whisper, "Love you so much," to Walter. 

And slept, finally at peace with himself.

********************Enfin, la fin********************

 

* * *

 

Title: Eating: The Christmas Special  
Epilogue in Two Parts  
(Hey! They do this on TV all the time. No reason why we can't do it, too.)  
Author: Josan  
Beta: Solan  
Date: December, 1999  
Summary: Walter and Alex spend Christmas with Mom and family.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG-13  
Archive: CJK at: http://adult.dencity.com/CJK/, Yes to Basement  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but it would be a nice Christmassy gesture on their part to gift them to us. After all, 'tis better to give than to receive.

WARNING: This is a Christmas story: BETA'S WARNING --sappy alert. You have been warned.  


* * *

*******************************************************

EATING: THE CHRISTMAS SPECIAL (Parts 1 & 2)

*******************************************************  


They arrived earlier than expected. Arms filled with wrapped boxes, plastic bags strung along their arms. Bringing the cold into her warm house.

Walter grinned, kissed her on the cheek. "Hi, Mom."

Nadia glared at him. "I wasn't expecting you till this evening."

"We left at five a.m." Walter set his armful down on the landing. He cocked an eyebrow at Alex who responded with a little turning up of the mouth.

From that she concluded that Alex had driven, probably too fast, and that they had left later than five. Walter used to try and cover up for his brother and sister in that same way.

Walter took the things from Alex, set them down beside his.

"Did you have a good trip up?" she asked Alex.

He had a much better poker face. "Yes, ma'am, thank you."

"We had good roads," interrupted Walter. "No snow until Albany. We stopped for a good, hot lunch and I really would love a cup of coffee, Mom, and Alex would prefer tea."

Then the two of them went back to finish emptying the car.

Nadia sighed. She hoped this would not be the pattern for the holidays: with Alex trying to blend into the woodwork and Walter running interference.

She shook her head at the packages littering her entry, shrugged and went to prepare a snack for the two.

They hauled everything up to their bedroom before coming to join her in the kitchen. Walter went for his usual place at the table while Alex took a chair nearer the wood stove. He sat, pulled up a stockinged foot onto the seat, dropped his chin onto the raised knee and watched, body still, eyes never missing anything.

He still made her a bit nervous.

They had spoken over the phone several times since the first visit. He was always very polite, answered her questions about work. She needed to ask Walter for more information about that: Alex answered, never offered specifics. Was that because he was uncomfortable with her, or was it because the work was confidential?

While Walter chatted, bringing her up-to-date on his work -- she never had to ask much these days, he was happy to volunteer -- she served them large pieces of the thick apple pie she had prepared for dessert.

Alex, she was pleased to see, thanked her, "ma'am", tucked in as though famished.

The phone rang. Walter was closest, so he answered.

"It's Louisa." Since Walter was picking Ouisa and Eli up at the airport the next day, he took the call.

Nadia took a sip of coffee, watched Alex concentrate on the pie. Maybe this was the opportunity she'd been waiting for.

"Alex?"

He spoke around his mouthful. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you think you could find something else to call me besides that? It makes me feel quite ancient, and I don't think that I'm there yet."

She watched Alex sit back in his seat, swallow his mouthful. He picked up the mug of sweetened tea -- she had counted at least three heaping spoonsful of sugar going into that mug -- sipped thoughtfully.

She waited.

"Nadeazhda?" he offered, a bit tentative.

"My grandmother used to call me that." For a moment she was overwhelmed with memories long forgotten. She felt the smile on her face grow. "Yes, I would like that. Alexei."

His answering smile was nowhere near as wide as her own, but she knew he was pleased.

Walter looked at them with a puzzled inquiry when he joined them again. She just smiled at him, offered him more pie.

"No thanks, Mom, I haven't finished this piece yet."

"Would you like a second piece? Alexei."

"Yes, thank you, I would. Nadeazhda."

Walter looked a bit surprised, but then he just shoved another piece of his pie into his mouth, his eyes happy.

*******************************************************

Nadia always had the grandchildren over for tea their last day of school before the holidays. Jilly was a health food fanatic and didn't allow sweets of any kind under her roof. Nadia had learnt over time that six males, one female could inhale an inordinate amount of forbidden treats when out from under their mother's eagle eye.

Walter couldn't believe the quantity of cupcakes, bars, cookies, tarts that covered the table. Alex, she noticed, still had room to sneak a couple of cookies.

When the hoard arrived, there were scarves, mittens, tuques, coats, boots all over the hallway leading to the kitchen.

The boys greeted their uncle with grunts and hasty hellos, ignored Alex who, she noticed, had pulled as far back from the crowd as he could and still be in the room.

Mouths stuffed, they told her the news, both from school and home. Elbowed each other out of the way to reach for a favourite treat. The noise level, as to be expected, was high. She handed Walter the pitcher of hot chocolate and told him to go serve his nephews.

Which reminded her that she hadn't seen Abby at the table. She looked around the room and found her with Alex.

Abby had not been very happy to know that someone had been in her bedroom. Jilly believed in communal living so Abby shared her space at home with her two younger brothers. Which meant that nothing was really hers, nothing was private. Nadia had found her crying inconsolably one afternoon over a broken doll. Since Abby spent so much time here anyway, Nadia had taken the girl with her to Burlington, had her pick out whatever she wanted for her dream bedroom. Then given it to her.

A combined birthday, Christmas gift for the next several years, Nadia had informed Gene and Jilly. Jilly was horrified at the "pinkness" of the room: and to think that she had been trying so hard to bring her children up in a non-gender specific way. The room was still a bone of contention between the two women, but Abby was in heaven.

Jilly had wasted no time in telling Abby that her Grandmom had let Uncle Walter's new friend stay in her room.

Nadia knew how important that room was to Abby: she had apologized to the child when she'd heard what Jilly had done. Now she watched as Abby checked out a potential rival for her room.

She couldn't hear what Alex said: the noise level was that high. But whatever it was, she could see Abby relax a bit. So, she thought, Alex...no, Alexei had it in him to pick up a child's insecurity and deal with it. That was nice.

The back door opened and Gene came in, joined his children in forbidden food, nodded a welcome to Alex, chatted with his brother, eventually rounded up his hoard and, after confirming Nadia's supper invitation for the next night, got everyone out and into the van with no more, no less fuss than usual.

Walter sat at the table, looked over the crumbs, empty mugs, empty plates. "I don't think my ears are working right. Are they always that noisy?"

Nadia took her seat, smiled. "Well, dear, there are seven of them. Eight, if you count your brother. And it is the start of holidays. But they'll be much better behaved tomorrow night: Jilly keeps tight reins on all of them."

Walter just shook his head.

Alex joined them, licked his finger and picked up some of the crumbs that littered the tablecloth.

"Alexei, how did you get along with Abby?" Nadia was curious.

"I thanked her for the use of her room. Told her it was very pretty, but that it was definitely a girl's room, not a guy's. I think she was worried about losing it."

Nadia smiled her approval at him. "Thank you."

Supper was chicken pot pie and the trimmings. Alex had no trouble handling seconds, though he did refuse a second piece of pie.

Nadia could hear them in their bedroom that night. She was brushing her hair when she heard Walter's shout of laughter, then just a bit later, another from Alex.  
She thought hard: she couldn't remember sounds, let alone laughter, coming from their bedroom whenever Walter and Sharon had visited.

*******************************************************

The next morning, Nadia handed them the list of last-minute items she needed in the village. She had work to do and they would be better occupied dealing with the crowds.

Lunch was soup and sandwiches. By now she knew Alex would eat more than Walter. She made him two thick roast beef sandwiches and watched as he devoured them both. The man was an empty pit.

Somehow, that made her more comfortable with him. So much so that she suggested that Walter go to the airport by himself because she needed Alexei here. Was that all right with them?

She caught the questioning look Walter sent Alex, who gave a little shrug in answer.

As Walter was going out of the front door, Alex called out, "Watch out for deer!"

Which reminded her, "Is that cell phone of yours working?"

Walter sent the two of them one of those Assistant Director looks. "Just once. It only happened the one time."

She and her son's lover shared a smile. Then she put him to work.

By the time Louisa threw open the door, the hallway and staircase were festooned with evergreen boughs and red bows. The living room was decorated, except for the corner where the tree would be put up later after supper. Alex had a bandaid on one finger where it had gotten in the way of the staple gun: Nadia was always amazed at the medical value of a handful of cookies, even with grown men.

Louisa, as befitted her role as one of the top New York City agents for new musicians, sported a new look. Her hair was white blonde, cropped. Needing some type of comment.

"What have you done to your hair? Ouisa! You had it so nice last time."

"Hello, Mom." Louisa hugged her mother. "Knew you'd like it."

Actually, she did. It suited Ouisa's extrovert attitude to life. And she did look the part what with the long dangling silver and turquoise earrings. The denim shirt and jeans. And the cowboy boots that added a couple of inches to her almost six-foot height.

"Eli? Dear, you are looking well."

Eli smiled one of his sleepy smiles and let her hug him. He stayed next to her, arm around her waist.

Eli had been mistakenly born into a family of giants. At nineteen, he barely measured five foot seven. Even his younger cousins were taller than he was. Not that it bothered him. Actually, Nadia had never known Eli to be bothered much by anything. He ambled through life, always took the path of least resistance, never worried about anything.

Except, that one time, a couple of years back, when his cousins had decided to pound on his portable keyboard. Eli never went anywhere without his keyboard: he was always tinkering with something on it. His father was a blue grass musician so he came by his ability naturally. He had been very vocal when he'd heard David and Gene Junior hammering away at the keys for the fun of it. It had ended up with Jilly upset with Eli's refusal to share his "toys", Louisa enraged at hearing her son referred to as "the Geek".

"The Geek" had a budding career as a composer and songwriter.

Now, he slouched against her, watching his mother taking off her boots, all the time talking a mile a minute. Walter had escaped to bring in the rest of the luggage: Louisa did not travel light. Nadia noticed that he wore that look he had when he was fighting off a headache. Ouisa did take some adjustment.

"I've got to tell you, Mom, the hall looks great."

"Yes, Alexei did a lovely job." She looked around, found the man in one of the darker corners. "Alexei, come meet Louisa and Eli."

She had had several phone calls with Louisa about Walter and his partner, knew that Louisa had called Walter but this was the first time she and Alex were meeting. And Louisa was as protective of Walter as he was of her.

She stood up, drawing herself to her full height, placed her hands on her hips and took her time looking him over.

Alex returned the favour.

Eli turned his head, whispered up into Nadia's ear, "She likes him. She's wearing her 'Found another winner' look."

"Eli," said Louisa, just as Walter brought in the last of her stuff, "come say hello to your uncle Alex."

Eli went to offer his hand. "Hello, Uncle Alex."

"Just Alex." He was a bit surprised by the strength in Eli's handshake.

"I think I like Uncle Alex better." Eli turned back to her. "I don't have to sleep in Abby's room, do I, Gram?"

"It's either that or the couch in the tv room."

"Couch."

*******************************************************

Supper required two settings. One for the children in the kitchen, one for the adults in the living room. The doors in the archway were thrown open so that both groups could see each other.

It was Jilly who had seen to the tables being set: she felt that the situation this Christmas might prove to be a bit tense, so she had insisted at home that her two eldest preside over the children's table, not join them in the dining room. Of course, she had included Eli at the children's table without consulting anyone.

"Well, I'm sorry," she told Gene that night, "I keep on forgetting how old he really is. He looks so much younger than Gene Junior that I forget he's older. I don't see why Louisa was making such a do about it: he didn't care."

Jilly was the first one of the family who got Alex's back up.

Nadia sighed: Jilly affected a lot of people that way. She meant well, but managed to irritate people with her well-meanings. Still, she was a good mother, in spite of some of her quirks. And she did love Gene who in turn loved her dearly. But there were times that she was difficult to bear with.

The meal at the "adults' table" was rather stiff. Even Louisa was quiet, for Louisa. Jilly held centre court, directed the conversation, making sure it was always politically correct, especially as it concerned Walter and Alex. She obviously had boned up on gay issues, health care and its concerns with gay relationships. Went on to offer Walter some other suggestions on reading matter that dealt with cholesterol -- he was at *that* age, wasn't he? -- and suggested that maybe Alex should read them as well. Had Alex ever taken a course in CPR? Just in case.

Walter's Louisa-headache, a small frown between the eyes, had now become a Jilly-headache, tight lipped, eyes a bit angry. Alex, Nadia discovered, was wearing that remote look he had the morning they'd left, on that first visit. Gene just smiled at his wife, sure everyone appreciated the time and care she was demonstrating for his family.

Sometimes Nadia wondered just where his blindness came from.

She had had to kick Louisa under the table twice already, to stop her from snapping at Jilly. It wouldn't have any effect on Jilly: Jilly was certain everyone appreciated her suggestions and would not comprehend that they weren't.

Still, she did push the limit, even for Nadia, while they were cleaning up after the meal.

All the grandchildren had convened in the tv room, to watch The Grinch; Gene and Walter were in the living room, getting the tree set up for decorating, discussing football. Nadia, Louisa and Jilly were in the kitchen, when Alex quietly joined them, picking up a dishtowel to help dry.

"It's all right, Alexei," Nadia said, "we have things under control. Why don't you join Walter and Gene?"

Before Alex could answer, Jilly jumped in. "Really, Nadia, it's obvious that Alex is more comfortable here with the women."

Louisa, who was washing the dishes, got very still.

Nadia wasn't thinking and said, "I'm sorry, Jilly, why would that be obvious?"

Jilly put on her superior know-it-all face and explained very carefully to her mother-in-law. "Nadia, dear. In every gay relationship, there is a masculine and a feminine partner. It is obvious that Alex is the feminine partner in this relationship and so, of course, he feels much more comfortable in our company rather than that of the men."

Nadia couldn't believe her ears. As quickly as she could, she invented a reason to send Jilly to check on the children, almost pushed her out of the room. She took a deep breath and turned to face Alex.

Alex was looking at the dish he had been drying. He was standing very still.

Nadia didn't know what to say. Dear God! For a woman who prided herself on not supporting stereotypes of any kind, Jilly ... Nadia was speechless. And how would Walter react when he heard about this?

A small snicker broke the silence. Then another one.

Louisa, who knew far more about Alex's past than did Jilly, looked up from the sink to Alex and began laughing out loud. Alex bit his lip then gave up and joined her. The two of them were laughing hysterically.

Nadia was taken aback at first by the reaction, but then felt a bubble of laughter well out of her. She tried to stop it, couldn't.

Walter pushed open the kitchen door to find his sister clinging onto Alex, her head on his shoulder, his mother sitting on the table, all three of them laughing out of control.

"What's so funny?"

Louisa tried to tell him, started laughing again.

"No." Nadia wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron. "I'm sorry, Walter, we can't tell you. Not right now. Alexei can tell you later, but not now. All right, Alexei?"

Alex nodded between guffaws.

Nadia waved towards the door. "It's time to get the children together to put the tree up. You and Gene organize that. We'll join you, in a bit. Oh, and Walter, keep Jilly busy for the next little while, will you, dear?"

*******************************************************

They had a dusting of snow that night so that Christmas day dawned new, and crisp, and brilliant.

Nadia was pleased that Alex joined them at morning service. Even though she knew that none of her children practised her religion, she was pleased that they cared enough to accompany her on special occasions.

They walked to the church, Walter with her, Louisa and Alex chatting behind, Eli strolling dreamily behind them. Walter had been told of the incident in the kitchen, but only when the others had left. For a moment she had worried about his reaction, until Eli had commented, "Do you think maybe she meant feline? Aunt Jilly does sometimes get confused about things."

Louisa had muttered something under her breath that Nadia pretended not to hear: Louisa had very little patience with people who underrated her son.

Alex had just shrugged. Walter had gotten a look on his face that she feared meant he was to going to pull a big brother routine on Gene.

They opened gifts after lunch.

The biggest of the boxes was hers. From Walter and Alex. An iMac computer. Bright orange.

She smiled her thanks at both of them, thought, Just what was she supposed to do with the thing? She didn't know anything about computers.

She'd gotten Walter the new collection of Irish poets that a professor from the college had recommended at a book club meeting. He had read them the one by Louis MacNeice, about an encounter and she had thought of Walter and Alex.

For Alex, she had knitted him a thick sweater in a dark green wool, a nice intricate pattern that, since he worked with patterns, she thought he might like.

At first, she wasn't sure she had done the right thing. Maybe a book would have been better. He just looked at it for a long time. Then he passed his hand over it. Even when he looked up, she still didn't know: he just looked at her, that remote expression on his face. Then she caught the expression in his eyes and knew it was all right. That and the shy smile that pushed the remoteness away.

And the fact that, for the rest of their stay, the sweater seemed to be always at hand.

Eli's present to Louisa was the icing on the Christmas cake.

He handed her an envelope.

"Go on, open it." For Eli, he looked excited.

Everyone watched as Louisa, smile on her face, opened the envelope, shook out the contents, a thick bunch of paper folded in three.

She began reading. Looked up at her son whose smile just grew a bit bigger. She went back to the papers, scanned them quickly, flipped to the final page.

When she looked up, she was crying. "Oh, Eli!" And grabbed him, holding him tightly, laughing and crying at the same time.

"Ouisa?" Walter took the sheave of paper, scanned it. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's a contract to compose the music for a film. It's just an indie, but the director's last film won an Honourable Mention at Sundance and was shown in Toronto." Eli was bursting with happiness.

By the time he had been passed from one person to the next, Eli was bruised. Even Alex had gotten a hug from Eli and given one in turn.

"Pays to be a geek, doesn't it?" he said to Eli.

*******************************************************

Boxing Day, Walter came downstairs to find his mother and his lover at the dining room table, huddled over the computer. Alex's portion of their gift was a manual for his mother to use, explaining, in careful detail, all the programs he thought she might use, how to send and receive e-mail, even how to use a search engine on the Net.

He left them to it, got himself a cup of coffee and checked in on Eli in the tv room. The kid was sprawled, one leg hanging off the couch. He picked up the blanket on the floor and covered his nephew with it. For a moment it crossed his mind that Alex must have been about this size and age when he'd been so badly hurt. He bent down and kissed Eli on the head.

Louisa joined him at the kitchen table, moaning about all the food they had packed away last night. Their mother had prepared for an army. Of course, between Eli and Alex, she might have been right.

>From the dining room came an "I did it? I did it. I did it!" followed by the sound of their mother's laughter. Alex's joined hers.

Louisa smiled at Walter, bent over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "You done good, brother mine."  
Walter smiled back, nodded to the other room. "You didn't do too badly yourself, sister mine."

*******************************************************

The rink was an outdoor one in the park. The lights came on automatically after dark so that Nadia could see the people playing hockey on the ice.

She locked the car door, took the hamper off the roof and carried it to the bench for later.

Walter was watching the "game" from this side, arms resting on the top of the rink boards, chin on arms. He looked up when she came to stand next to him. She slipped her arm under his.

The teams playing hockey were unbalanced. On one side were Gene's four youngest sons: even the five year old had more experience than the oldest player on the other team.

That team was composed of Louisa, Eli, Abby and Alex. Who were spending more time propping each other up, picking themselves off the ice, laughing than actually in play.

Nadia watched as they tried to get the puck into the opposite net and shook her head when Alex just took it in hand and tossed it into the net. His side did a victory dance while the boys shook their heads in disgust. This was a *serious* game, hockey, not something to fool around with.

Nadia leaned a bit more into Walter's warmth: the temperature had dropped. She watched him watching his lover then tried to see what he was seeing.

"He's having fun."

"Yes." Walter spoke softly, in such a way that she looked at him again.

"He hasn't had much of that."

Walter looked at her, a small smile on his face. "No. Not much."

She looked back as Abby shrieked with laughter. Alex was holding her so she could stick-handle the puck around their net. Eli was encouraging them on with very un-Eli-like noise.

"Gene and Jilly have been having problems."

Walter straightened, pulled his mother closer. "Oh."

"Gene has been offered a visiting position at a university in South Africa. For a year. Jilly doesn't want to go."

Walter grunted, neutrally.

"She feels it may not be good for the children, what with the situation and all. Gene Junior starts university next year. David wants to finish his last year of high school with his friends. Gene has made arrangements with a colleague to keep an eye on Gene Junior in residency. And he's quite willing to let David stay with them for his final year. Abby wants to stay with me. The other children are all for it. There's even a visiting professor here whose stay has been extended who would like to rent their house for the year."

Walter waved back at Louisa who was now making snow angels on the ice. "I thought Jilly liked Africa. So what's the real problem?"

"She's pregnant again."

Walter leaned back against the boards. Got a funny grin on his face.

She gave him one of those questioning looks of hers.

"Just trying to picture Alex pregnant."

She swatted him on the arm. "I reminded her that the first heart transplant took place in South Africa so they must have doctors there who can deal with a pregnancy, even if she is 42. I'd like to bring Abby to D.C. for the cherry blossoms. Will there be room for us at your apartment?"

Walter kissed her on the cheek. "Whenever you want, Mom." So, Gene and Jilly would be going to Africa.

She waved the players over. "Hot chocolate!"

As the custom, she had also brought replacement headgear for everyone. The boys played so hard, their hair was usually sopping wet. While they drank their hot chocolates, exchanged skates for boots, she went around with a towel, roughly dried their hair, replaced their tuques with dry ones.

Abby was sitting next to Alex, chatting happily away about a movie she wanted to see before going back to school. Nadia always made sure that her tuques were pink and purple. She tugged the dry one onto her head, pulled her bangs down.

And moved on to the last one on the bench. Alex.

He looked up at her, not understanding what she wanted.

She pulled his tuque off, the one he'd found in the hat and mitten box by the back door. She caught his surprise as the towel dropped over his head and she treated him to a brisk rub. He had the same expression on his face as when he'd opened his gift to find the sweater.

She answered someone's question as she held his eyes, finger combed his hair into a semblance of order. From out of her pocket she pulled out a tuque, a green one she had quickly knitted with the left-over wool. She tugged it onto his head, smiled at him, went to pour more hot chocolate for the youngest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand come up and touch the tuque.

*******************************************************

They were the first to leave. Gene would be driving Louisa and Eli back to airport the next day.

There were hugs, kisses all round. Abby, who had spent the night, hugged her Uncle Walter and Uncle Alex, thanked them for letting them come for the cherry blossoms. Eli reminded them that he would like them to come to New York to see the first run through of film and music, hopefully by the end of February. Louisa hugged them both and told them she could put them up, even if things would be cramped.

Louisa was escorting them to the car when Nadia called, "Alexei?"

Alex turned and came up to her. She was standing at the top of the stairs, coat slung over her shoulders. Alex was wearing the green sweater, the tuque hanging slightly out of his pocket.

"Yes, Nadeazhda?"

"Dobro pozhalovat v nashumasbu semui."

Alex stopped breathing for a moment. A look very much like pain flashed across his face.

"Did I say that right?" She had called the professor who taught Russian at home last night for the right pronunciation.

Alex had to try a couple of times before he could whisper, "Yes."

She leaned over and kissed first one cheek and then the other. She put her arms around him, felt his come up around her waist. She just held him for a moment. When she pulled away, his eyes were bright.

She kissed him on the cheek. "You'd better get going. Walter's waiting."

He climbed up the steps till he could reach her cheek, cautiously returned the kiss and started towards the car.

"And Alexei, " she called after him, "speed limits exist for a reason. It takes almost ten hours of driving to go from here to D.C. See to it."

  
*******************************************************  
Russian = Welcome to the family. I think. The nice woman at the Russian Embassy wasn't sure as to the Latinization.  
*******************************************************

JOYEUX NOEL

*******************************************************  
  


 

* * *

 

Title: CLEAN CUT (1/1)  
Author: Josan, who asked a nice person *who regularly sends feedback* what story line she would like to see.  
Beta: Linda Shan, who made the mistake of actually telling me what she wanted as a story subject, and then threw in the problem that is central to this episode. So (snicker), I made her beta it. Let THAT serve as a warning! <g>  
Date: March, 2000  
Summary: Alex has an operation.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: Sorry, PG - 13  
Archive: With thanks to CJK at: http://adult.dencity.com/CJK/  Yes, to Basement, Ratlover, and, of couse SKSA.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: If he doesn't want to use them, CC shouldn't be surprised others do!

* * *

*******************************************************

CLEAN CUT

Alex was sitting cross-legged at one end of the long couch, pretending to be watching the soccer game.

Walter knew he was pretending because he hadn't reacted to the very obvious foul the referee had missed against his favourite team. He sat back in his corner, feet up on the coffee table and watched Alex, eyes downcast, playing with a hole in one of the knees of his old sweatpants.

Something was bothering his lover again. Walter shook his head slightly. Damn! Getting Alex to spill what was on his mind took more patience than...than dealing with the X-Files! He would, eventually, tell him what was on his mind, but often he needed a little prod to get going.

Whatever it was, this time, it had been stewing in him for the past few weeks. And from the lack of attention, the day-dreaming, the occasional deep sighs, Walter had a feeling this one was not going to be something easily handled with just a few comforting words and a bout of hot sex.

Come to think of it, it had been a while since they'd had a bout of hot sex. More than a couple of weeks. Closer to three, no, four. They made love just as frequently, but more vanilla flavoured than the hot, spicy sessions Alex liked to initiate. Walter always made a few token protests at the start of these, more out of ritual than real meaning. Alex enjoyed considering it as a challenge, getting him to ignore his age and behave like a randy rabbit rather than a fifty-two year old man whom the statistics claimed should not be able to get it up several times in a night. He never protested very strongly: he hoped Alex hadn't taken the last set to heart.

"What?" Alex had looked up and caught him staring.

Walter decided to take the bull by the horns. "What's wrong, Alex? And don't tell me nothing's wrong. You've been far too introspective even for a crazy Russian like you."

Alex gave a ghost of a smile at that. Walter reached out a hand and waited. He saw the decision in his eyes before Alex moved to lie, head on Walter's lap.

So, thought Walter, his crazy Russian needed a little pampering. Alex only lay like this in his lap when he felt the need for comfort. Walter said nothing, just played with Alex's hair, massaged his back along his spine, stroking him like a cat. Kneaded the sore muscles of the truncated arm.

Alex made a soft sound, not of pleasure, but of pain. Walter immediately stilled his hand. So that was it: the arm was hurting again. Now that he thought of it, that would explain why the prosthesis came off as soon as Alex arrived home, why he didn't wear it at all on weekends. He moved his hand to Alex's neck and left it there, offering silent encouragement.

Alex sighed.

He snuggled more into Walter's warmth. After a few minutes he said, "I went to see Fischer about my arm. He wants to send me to a specialist. For an operation."

"I see." And Walter did. "What do you think?"

"Part of me knows he's right."

"And the other part of you?"

Alex didn't answer. He moved even closer to Walter.

Walter placed both his hands on Alex, silently offering support. One hand smoothed back the hair off his face so he could see whatever expression Alex allowed to show. The other continued rubbing in small circular motions along the tensed back.

"You remember that segment on 60 Minutes?"

"Which one?"

Alex took a deep breath. "The one on how some people were just paralysed under anaesthetic, not knocked out? How they felt the knives?"

Oh, shit! Yes, he remembered that one. Alex had turned white and gone to get a beer. He'd returned only after the segment was over.

"I know it's stupid," began Alex.

"Hush! Not stupid, Alex. A very valid concern." Christ, a more than valid concern in this case. Walter kept his voice conversational. "Have you discussed this with Fischer?"

Alex shook his head.

"Alex. Joe's aware of what happened to you. He will take this seriously if you talk to him about it. He won't scoff off your fears. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that. But somehow that doesn't help."

*****

Joe Fischer had no trouble taking Alex's concerns seriously: he too had seen the 60 Minutes segment on "awareness".

Walter had gone with Alex to discuss the problem. He listened while Joe explained about a special BIS Monitor that could be used. The monitor tracked brain electrical activity: the higher on the scale the BIS displayed, the more likely the patient would be aware and awake.

Could he guarantee it would be 100% effective? Joe looked from Alex to Walter then back to Alex. No, he couldn't. He personally had no experience with it. He had heard that Rush Surgicenter in Chicago had supposedly had a fair amount of success with the monitor, but nothing was 100%. And he would have to find out if the surgical team he wanted to recommend used it.

Would he be alone in the operating room? Well, normal procedures could be put aside in special considerations...Joe would see to it that this one would fall under that category, so he could accompany...No, not him. Walter. Could Walter accompany him in?

Walter let nothing show on his face, but the thought of standing by, watching his lover's arm being further amputated...having to worry if he were really under or once more feeling the knives...

They both had things to think about after they left Joe's office.  
  
  


Louisa dropped in unexpectedly that week for an over-night visit and found both her brother and his lover unnaturally quiet. Even for them. She kidnapped Walter from his office for lunch and used a fair amount of the loving blackmail sisters gather over the years to get the situation out of him. And then did something Ouisa did only for her nearest and dearest: she let Walter talk it out of his system without once interrupting, making only the most encouraging of noises when he needed them.

After leaving a Walter who felt the situation was clearer for having heard himself talk about it out loud, Louisa surprised Alex at his office. Insisted on going out for coffee. She couldn't use any of her usual methods on him: he wasn't her brother, he wasn't a musician she was tending through to the next level. But she had eyes and used them to register the shadows under his, the fact that his attention wandered a few times while she was telling him about the group she had come here to D.C. to hear, that he seemed more listless than his usual quiet.

She returned that afternoon to New York, thought about the situation during the flight, during the taxi ride home. On the fridge, Eli had left her a note about how he would be probably pulling an all-nighter at the studio. She made herself a sandwich, plopped herself on the couch and settled in for a long call to her mother.

*****

Nadia asked her eldest grandson to find her the information she needed using her computer. She was adequate on it, but Gene Jr. was a whiz. It took him an afternoon to pool together all the information she needed. That evening, she sat in her favourite chair and reviewed all material he had found for her. She really wasn't too surprised to find that the son of one of her colleagues on the Church Board popped up often in the documentation on orthopaedic surgery. The man whose specialty was dealing with rebuilding the limbs of deformed children, of children affected by land-mines had quite a reputation. As she well knew since Cynthia often bragged about the work her son did.

Nadia thought that a man used to dealing with terrified children would be able to handle their Alex with the gentleness he needed.

The next morning she called Cynthia and invited her over for coffee and cake, ostensibly to discuss the campaign for raising funds to repair the church roof. Cynthia never realized what Nadia really wanted was the present itinerary of her surgeon son.

Of course, neither Walter nor Alex was aware of the family discussions and plans that were going on behind their backs.

Walter might not have been surprised if he had learnt of it: he was used to his mother and her involvement in her children's lives. Especially when Nadia thought she knew what was best for them. She had certainly presented Jilly and Gene with finalized plans to expedite them on their way when Jilly began having second thoughts, yet again, about Africa. And she had been right: Gene and Jilly had both found outlets for their energy. Gene was teaching American History in an integrated university: Jilly was involved, new baby and all -- yet another boy -- in a literacy program for women. Amy had returned from spending Christmas with them with the news that they would be spending another year in Africa.

Alex was completely taken aback when Nadia called one afternoon, about two weeks after Louisa's visit to inform him that he had an appointment with Doctor Leo Courville that coming Monday at the University Hospital in Burlington. That he should bring his latest x-rays with him, the results of his last check-up.

When Alex stuttered he couldn't possibly get there for Monday, Nadia informed him that the plane reservations were already made and to be certain he and Walter left early enough to avoid possible traffic jams on the Beltway.

"Alex? What's wrong?" Walter wondered what the hell his mother had said to Alex to make him turn white the way he had.

Almost unable to speak, Alex handed Walter the phone and sat down, not knowing how to handle the fact that the decision as to the next step had been taken out of his hands. He was barely aware of Walter's protests on his behalf, his winding down under his mother's patient explanation that they couldn't wait too long since Leo was proposing to leave for Central America for six months of volunteering his surgical skills at small rural hospitals.

"Walter," she played her winning card, "he's used to trauma victims. He works with children who have been maimed by war. Alexei will need that kind of experience to get through this ordeal. And let's not fool ourselves, Walter, it will be an ordeal for him. Leo will make it easier for him. I promise, son."

Nadia was waiting for them when their plane landed. She accepted Walter's hello kiss, and then stood waiting to see what Alex would do. Walter stepped back: this was between the two of them. He watched as Alex, who had spent last night staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, stop about a metre away from his mother.

"Alexei."

"Nadezdah." Then asked the question that had been plaguing him since the night of her phone call: "Why?"

"Because I love you, dear." She stepped up to him and placed her hand on his cheek. "And I can't stand the idea that you may be in pain." With a smile to comfort the lost child she saw in his eyes, she kissed him on the cheek.

And as if he were a child, she took his hand, held it tightly as they walked out to the car. Walter drove them to the hospital, watched as his lover held onto his mother's hand for dear life all the time that they waited for his name to be called.

For a moment there he felt a twinge of jealousy, that Alex should lean on his mother at this time rather than himself, but then he realized that what Alex needed at this particular time was not a lover, but a parent who would reassure him that all would be right. Still, he couldn't prevent the little thrill when Alex's name was called, it was he Alex looked to, to accompany him into the doctor's examining room. Nadia smiled at both of them, took a book out of her bag. The title registered on Walter only after the door had closed: "Amputations & Prosthetics".

Leo Courville was a teddy bear of a man, had the sort of face that would immediately put a child at ease. It took longer with Alex. They had both checked out Courville's credentials, found them to be impeccable. He had a superb reputation as a surgeon. Now Walter watched as the man himself earned a reputation in his eyes for his handling of Alex.

He was incredibly gentle, carefully explaining everything he was doing before he went ahead and did it. Explained why he was doing certain things, explained what he was looking for in the x-rays that Joe had taken just the day before as a special favour, to put Walter's mind at rest that the x-rays they brought with them would be the most recent.

There followed an intense discussion between doctor and patient as to the type of prosthesis Alex wanted to graduate to after the operation. It would be fitted onto him as soon as possible after the operation itself.

And then, almost with a nonchalance that belied the anxiety it was causing him, Alex brought up the subject of anaesthetic. Courville, used to parents accompanying their child into his operating room, immediately suggested Walter should do likewise. It hadn't taken him more than a moment to understand the relationship between the two men. And not more than one glance at the butchery that had passed for amputation to know that there had been a great deal of pain associated with it. The note about Alex's fears that Fischer had included in the medical file was a logical fallout.

Courville explained that in the Third World countries he often operated in, they didn't have the very latest drugs, anaesthetics. He could see no problems in this particular case about not using them. He proposed to begin with a local anaesthetic, making sure the arm was completely senseless before going to a general anaesthetic, which would knock him out for the operation itself. They would not use a neuromuscular blocker, though they would have to use restraints. Just in case. They would wait until he was asleep to use them. Was that agreeable?

Alex actually looked relieved. Walter sighed. Damn! His mother had been right again.

Nadia knew better than to gloat. Alex came out of the examining room, looking like he had gotten rid of a heavy weight. He kissed her cheek, whispered, "Thank you."

Courville set the operation for a date two weeks away. Time for both of them to arrange time off. Nadia merely raised an eyebrow at them -- looking very much like a certain ex-AD, thought Alex -- and informed them that they would both be moving into her house for the duration. Alex would need to be near enough to Burlington to have his follow-up examinations.

Besides, it was spring and Walter could go fishing. There were some nice trout streams in Vermont as he already knew. And then there were a few little jobs that needed doing around the house. Walter made a show of groaning, protesting that the "few little jobs" were probably several pages in length.

*****

It had taken Walter a long time to fall asleep, but now that he had, his soft snores covered the small sounds of Alex slipping out of the bed. He pulled his sweatpants on in the hallway and quietly made his way down the stairs to Nadezdah's kitchen. With careful movements, he made himself a mug of tea and sat, in the dark, at the table to drink it. Early that morning, he would check into the hospital in Burlington, be prepared for evening surgery.

He knew it was the right thing to do: the arm hurt more and more these days. he couldn't bear the prosthesis any more, gasped at the pain whenever anyone accidentally touched it. The operation was necessary. He was all right with it. Well, he thought he had been. Now, he wasn't so sure.

The creaking stair warned him he would no longer be alone. But it was Nadia, not Walter, who joined him at the table.

In the two weeks since his quick in-and-out visit to the doctor, Nadia had been taken aback by the lines put on his face by the pain Alex could no longer hide. And by the fear that hovered just behind those eyes that she could now read so much more easily than that first visit.

She had been horrified when Louisa had told her how Alex had lost the arm in the first place. One of the things Walter had let drop in his conversation with her. When Louisa had mentioned the 60 Minutes segment, Nadia had immediately understood Alex's fears.

"Alexei. It will be all right. Leo has promised you a sure way of seeing that there is no pain."

Alex nodded. "I know."

Nadia smiled. "Yes, dear. I know you know with this." She touched his head. "But do you know with this?" She touched his chest where his heart lay. "And with this?" She dropped her hand to his stomach.

Alex gave a soft chuckle. "The heart is thinking it over, but the stomach is definitely not certain."

Nadia's smile widened for a moment and then she grew serious. "And do you hate me for pushing you into the corner on this?"

Alex looked at her. "No. Walter explained you thought you were doing it for my own good."

"I was. I am."

"He also explained that much to your children's disgust you're usually right when you push an issue."

Nadia smiled again. "True. I am."

"But for your children."

"Alexei," Nadia cocked her head, "*you* are the one Walter has chosen as his partner. That makes you my child as well. And what mother cares to see one of her children in pain?" She stood up and put her arms around him. "It will be all right. I promise you."

Alex hid his face in her shoulder. "I'm afraid," he whispered, voice rough with suppressed memories of the forest in Tunguska, the follow-up operation in the village by a doctor who had a scant amount of morphine.

"Yes, dear, I know. But you won't be alone. Walter will be in there with you. And I'll be outside waiting. Then Amy, Ouisa and Eli will be arriving from New York the next day and we'll all be there for you." She tightened her arms around him and gently rocked him, comforting him.

Walter sat on the bottom of the steps and listened to his lover cry out his fears in the security of his mother's arms.

*****

Nadia looked up from her book to watch her son -- whose complexion almost matched the green scrub suit he wore -- come sit down besides her.

"How is he?"

Walter swallowed. "In recovery."

"I take it all went well?"

This time all Walter accomplished was a slight nod. Nadia went and got a ginger ale from the vending machine. She handed it to him, and then pulled a plastic waste basket closer, just in case it was needed.

"Your father never so much as flinched when he had to deal with a car accident. He was cool, calm in the face of any emergency that he had to handle in his job as sheriff. The first time I saw him wearing the look you have on now is when you fell out of the tree in the back yard. You were four years old and you had somehow managed to climb up about twelve feet. He saw you, went to get you but you slipped and hit the ground before he could get to you. Do you remember?"

Walter shook his head, managed a swallow of the drink: it managed to stay down.

"You weren't badly hurt. Had most of the breath knocked out of you, had a slight concussion. Your father held you all the way to the hospital. *I* had to drive. When we got there, the doctor thought he was the patient he looked so sick.

"You spent one day in bed and were back to normal. It took your father considerably longer. It's different when it's someone you love."

Walter nodded. Nadia stood and put her arms around him as she had Alex the night before. "You could have left once he was asleep."

Walter shook his head against her shoulder. "I promised him."

"Yes, dear. And even asleep, he needed you there." She hugged him tightly.

Courville outfitted Alex with a self-controlled demerol kit, though he closely monitored Alex's usage of it. He was please with the way the operation had gone. He'd had to remove about two more inches of the stump, but the nerves would be less inflamed, would hurt less. The phantom pain, a problem with any amputation, should also occur less often. He was rather proud of the fact that though not pretty, the new end of the stump would be a lot less difficult to look at.

He smiled at Alex as he finished examining him. "I must say the scariest moment was when I thought we were doing to lose your partner." He grinned at Walter who was watching Alex's face. "Went a very interesting shade of green there for a while."

Alex reached out for Walter with his hand. "Sorry." He was less groggy today than yesterday.

"Brat," answered Walter.

"We'll release you day after tomorrow," continued Courville, pretending he didn't see Walter stroking Alex's hand with his free one. "There'll be a prescription for painkillers with the others. I would prefer that you use them as needed only, not more than two every four hours. Then it's back in a week, for a check up and for fitting your new toy. We'll start you on your physio and Dr. Fischer said he would oversee your program once you got back to Washington."

He'd been gone about a minute when the door opened and Amy stuck her head in. "Uncle Alex, are you awake? It's okay, Gram, they're only kissing." And pushed the door to the sound of laughter.

Alex had been hurt before in his days with the Consortium. When that happened, he usually went underground, found himself a place to hide and stayed there till he was better. He preferred to depend only on himself, or, if he had to, maybe one other source to provide him with medical help, food until he could take care of himself, of his own needs.

But not this time.

He had thought he would move into the bedroom, ensconce himself in bed and maybe see Walter with lunch and supper.

Instead, once Walter had helped him with his morning rituals, he found himself installed in the tv room, on the couch that proved very comfortable. Nadia tucked a blanket around him, fluffed up the pillows that supported his back and head. Amy brought him a glass of juice, Ouisa breakfast on a tray. Not just breakfast for himself, but for all of them. Nadia had made him a soft boiled egg and toast soldiers for dipping into the yoke.

There was a fairly noisy discussion of what people would be doing that day: Walter roped Ouisa into helping him clean up the garden. Ouisa tried hard to convince Eli that he should join them, but Eli refused, saying he had more important things to do. Amy gobbled her food, hurriedly kissed everyone good-day and rushed off to school.

By the time he was left alone, Alex had the beginnings of a headache, and a shoulder that throbbed. Nadia didn't even ask him, she went and got his pills, held out two to him and made sure he downed them with the last of his juice. Then she helped him lie down, kissed his forehead and left him alone. When she checked in on him twenty minutes later, he was fast asleep. She stopped Walter three times from going in and checking on him before lunch.

By evening Walter appreciated the fact that his family was treating Alex like they had anyone in the family who had gotten hurt. Alex was simply overwhelmed. He broached the subject that night in their bed, his head on Walter's shoulder, waiting for his bedtime dose of medication to take effect.

"Your mother keeps kissing me on the forehead."

Walter made some kind of agreeing noise. "She's always checked for fever that way."

"And Ouisa gave me a head massage."

"Didn't it help with your headache?"

"Yeah." There was a slight pause. "Amy's forever bringing me juice."

"Hmm. Courville explained that some of the medication had a dehydrating effect. He told you to drink plenty of liquids."

"Right. So then I've got to piss and Eli follows me to the door of the john and back, like it was my leg that was operated on, not my arm."

"Well, love, it has been only five days. And you are a bit wobbly on your feet."

Alex scoffed. "I suppose I should be happy Jilly is in Africa. She probably would follow me into the john, lecturing me about the proper way to piss."

"No,' disagreed Walter, "she probably would hold your dick and make sure the last drop gets properly shaken off."

Alex laughed sleepily. "Still doesn't explain why they're all doing this."

Walter rubbed his cheek against the silky hair that he had washed himself that night before going to bed. "You still don't get it, do you?"

Alex opened his eyes and looked at his lover, a bit confused.

"You're family, Alex. That's how we take care of our own in this family. We overwhelm them with attention. Face it: you're just going to have to accept it all."

Alex nestled his head a little more comfortably on Walter's shoulder. He thought a moment about the rat holes he had hidden out in to recover from beatings, gun shot wounds. Alone. Then he thought about the day he had just gotten through, with people who were concerned about him. Who cared for him.

"Okay," he said.

*******************************************************

The complete title of the book Nadia is reading is: Amputations & Prosthetics: A Case Study Approach by Bella J. May.

The BIS Monitor does exist, is being used at Rush Surgicenter in Chicago. It is still not widely used.

"Awareness" was a segment on 60 Minutes. According to AWARE (Awareness With Anesthesia Research Education), of 20M Americans who have surgery every year, anywhere from 40K to 150K experience some level of awareness.

I couldn't remember the name of the hospital in Burlington, Vermont, so I made one up. Hey! It's only a story.

 

 

* * *

 

Title: DANGEROUS RELATIONS  
Series: EATING UNIVERSE  
Author: Josan   
Beta: Skif  
Date: August, 2000  
Summary: Eli's new lover has to pass family inspection.  
Pairing: Eli/Other  
Rating: PG-13  
Archive: Yes, to SKSA, Basement, Ratlover, RatB *if* you want it.   
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: Skinner and Krycek are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but the others are all mine.  
NOTE: Yes, I know. I swore that was it for the EATING Series. But Skif wanted to know what happened to Eli. And she gave me the hook this story hangs on. In keeping with my you-request-it-you-beta-it policy, Skif betaed. We hope you enjoy this story as much as we did playing around with the idea.

* * *

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Abby Skinner smiled at the elderly gentleman who found her a menu and led the way to the table Eli had reserved. His usual. In the back corner so that he could pursue his favourite pastime: people watching. He maintained that he got the inspiration for his best music from watching people.

She sighed as she looked around the small Italian restaurant. New York and all its foibles! She loved the place.

At the ripe old age of 19, Abby was off on her own. Not that she didn't miss her family, she did. Some more than others. Her grandmother had reluctantly let her leave, but that was more because she feared loneliness for she would be alone in the house now rather than the belief that Abby could not survive in the big bad city. Her parents, who alternated years in Middlebury with years in Africa, were used to not having her around, even when they moved back to the States. Abby had preferred the constancy of living with her grandmother.

She hadn't lived in Gram's pocket all that time. After graduation, the Uncles had given her a three month Eurail pass, a credit card and their recommendations of places to visit. Unbeknownst to Uncle Walter, Uncle Alex had slipped her an account number, a list of contacts and places to visit in Russia. She'd returned, finally knowing what she wanted to do. So, here she was, first year student at the Columbia School of Journalism, waiting for her cousin Eli to show up with his newest conquest.

Abby sipped the red wine she'd ordered. She was used to Eli. Even though he had told her to be at the restaurant for 12 sharp, she doubted she would see him much before 12:30. It was a family joke that Eli would be a half hour late to his own funeral.

As for the conquest, she wondered what Eli was into now. The last had been tall, almost waif-like, all arms and legs. About her age. He had lasted almost three months. Not quite par for the course for Eli's lovers. 

Poor Eli. 

No. Poor lovers. The first love of Eli's life was his music. When he was composing, all else ceased to exist for him. Eating. Sleeping. All that took a back seat. Lovers too. And they tended to resent that fact.

Except that this time, when he had called her to invite her to lunch, his voice had been different. Less sleepy. More like when he had won some coveted award for his composing. Not a tone she usually heard when Eli talked about a lover.

Not that there had been that many of them. But he was 28. And he was certainly attractive to men who went for the short, slim, creative type. Not to mention the hair. She did envy him that long hair. Dark chocolate brown. Straight. He usually wore it tied back, dangling between his shoulder blades. Once she had watched him mesmerize a room full of people as he had undone the tie and shaken his hair free. She doubted that he was even aware of the effect he had had.

"Abby."

Abby looked up to see Eli grinning at her from the entrance. She checked her watch, only 15 minutes late. Well, well, well.

And well, well, well, for the man accompanying her cousin.

The first thing that struck her was that he was older than Eli. Unusual for Eli's lovers. Not the usual Eli physical type either. Not tall and lanky, but just a head taller, almost stocky in build.

"Abby." Eli bent and kissed her cheek. "I knew you would be on time. Jamie wondered if you wouldn't just arrive a half hour later like he's learnt to do."

Abby smiled at the two men. Hmmm. Like he'd learnt to do, she thought. That sounded promising.

"Abby, may I present Jamie Forester." To Abby's amazement, Eli blushed slightly as he turned to the man at his side. Jamie, she was pleased to see, reacted to that with a softening of expression. My, my. "Jamie is a pianist, a studio musician I met when we were doing the music for that wildlife documentary. Jamie, my favourite cousin, Abby Skinner, who one day expects to be the top political columnist in the States."

Abby gave Jamie a thorough once over.

Jamie Forester had to be a good ten years older than Eli. From the golden brown colour of his skin, the ebony black of his hair, he was probably of mixed background. From the shape of his eyes, probably some oriental ancestry in there too. Startling in their colour. A blue, almost violet. As busy evaluating her as she was him.

She let Eli order for them, sat back and enjoyed her meal while she brought Eli up to date on her activities at school, the adventures she had had in Russia which she was not supposed to have had. He discussed the music he was composing for a Canadian-American co-production documentary film about the humourous misconceptions each had about the other's country. Jamie didn't say much, just watched the two of them interact, eyes mainly on Eli, occasionally speaking in his slight foreign accent when Eli drew him into the conversation.

Not typical Eli behaviour there too. Once Eli got started on his music, he was usually not concerned about his lover's inclusion in the conversation. Nor had she ever seen him look at a lover in public the way these two did. Like, she giggled to herself, the other was the reason sex had been invented. 

They were considering dessert when Eli finally said, "Out with it."

"Out with what?" Abby tried hard to look as though she had no idea what he was talking about.

"You're wearing Gram's smile, the one she puts on when she thinks something is really funny but doesn't want to spoil the mood. The one that drives your mother crazy."

Abby merely raised her eyebrows.

Eli raised his back. "Spill it, brat."

Letting the suppressed grin out, Abby propped her elbows on the edge of the table, dropped her chin onto her clasped hands. She looked from Eli to Jamie's interested face and back to Eli.

"It's never going to work, you know."

Eli shifted in his chair. "What's not going to work?"

"Passing Jamie off as a mild mannered reporter for the Daily Planet. Not going to work."

Eli froze. Jamie didn't move. But the tension that had been underlying the whole lunch rose a degree or two.

Abby smiled reassuringly at Jamie. "Look, guys. I don't for one minute doubt the two of you are happy together, and frankly, I'm happy for you, Eli. I don't really know Jamie, but I'm glad that you've finally found someone. 

"But passing him off as a studio musician...that might work in most families, but not going to happen in ours. Not with the Uncles."

Jamie rested his arms on the table and leaned over. "I don't quite understand. I am a studio musician. That's how I earn my living."

Abby ignored the subtle threat that Jamie was projecting. "Now maybe. But before? What were you? A mercenary? A terrorist?"

Jamie gave a soft laugh. "What an imagination you must have."

"Abby..."

"Eli." Abby interrupted, her voice serious. "What do you think is going to happen the first time the Uncles get a look at him?"

"Jamie's a studio musician. Nothing more."

Abby cocked an eyebrow. "Eli. Have you really looked at Jamie?" She smiled at Jamie, inviting him to enjoy the joke. Jamie ignored the invitation.

"Yes, I really have looked at Jamie. I love looking at Jamie. I do it as often as I can. I know what I see."

"Eli. You look at him exactly the same way Uncle Walter looks at Uncle Alex."

"That's because Uncle Walter is in love with Uncle Alex. As I love Jamie."

She didn't doubt that. Nor that this time it was the real thing. "Yes. And he looks at you exactly the same way Uncle Alex looks at Uncle Walter."

"Maybe," Eli's tone bore an edge of sarcasm, "that's because he loves me the same way." 

"And that's the trouble. He has the same look in his eyes. Think about it, Eli." Abby moved her focus to Jamie whose attention had stayed locked on her, a hint of menace in his eyes. "Jamie, has Eli told you about the Uncles?"

"Yes." Jamie shrugged slightly. "He's told me about your Uncle Walter who works for some think tank in Washington, that your Uncle Alex works for some company that specializes in computer security."

"Has he told you what they used to do?"

Jamie looked to Eli who made a barely audible sound and winced. "He said Walter used to be with the FBI."

"Assistant Director," stressed Abby watching for a reaction.

Jamie raised an inquiring eyebrow at Eli who shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."

"And what Uncle Alex used to do?"

Jamie looked from his lover who was rubbing his hands over his face, groaning softly. "No. Do tell, just what did Uncle Alex used to do?"

"Have you ever heard of an organization called the Consortium?"

Jamie gave a dismissive laugh. "The Consortium? Isn't that a fairy tale used to scare children?"

"You know better than that," Abby's voice was sharp. "Uncle Alex was one of their assassins." Her tone serious, she enumerated, "You walk like Uncle Alex. You hold yourself like Uncle Alex. Your eyes are like Uncle Alex's. You even dress," she pointed to the leather jacket that had been thrown on the fourth chair at the table, "like Uncle Alex. And as I said, you look at Eli the same possessive way Uncle Alex looks at Uncle Walter."

"Abby..."

"Eli. If I can see it, do you think the Uncles won't?" She turned back to Jamie who was watching her with the same expression Uncle Alex wore when he sensed a threat to his lover. It gave her a shiver, but she shook it off. Jamie, she recognized, was irritated, not really a danger to her. "So, all I'm saying is, you two had better come up with a story that will satisfy the Uncles because all three of us know that with Uncle Alex's computer skills and both Uncles' connections, whatever is in Jamie's past is not going to stay there."

Abby sat back in her chair.

Eli and Jamie shared a look then, with a sigh, Jamie turned to Abby. "I'm in a sort of witness protection program. Actually an exchange one. The Brits thought I would be safer here...that I could melt into the background. My problem seems to be that I have chosen the only man in the States I can't hide that from to fall in love with."

Abby sympathized. "Welcome to the family."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jamie signed for the rental car while Eli handled the luggage. Abby carried the box of gifts the men were bringing with them. 

"Peace offerings?" she teased.

"Better than human sacrifice," Jamie muttered. 

Abby reached over and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry so much. Eli gave his mother more than enough information to set the Uncles on their way. Better they all know the truth now then find out they've been deceived. Skinners don't handle deception well."

They were on their way to their Gram's for Thanksgiving. A Skinner tradition. Christmas was for families, Gram had announced to all the grandchildren who now had families of their own. She expected them to spend Christmas with their own families. She was more than satisfied to have as many of her horde as possible for Thanksgiving.

The Uncles would already be there. They usually arrived a few days early to see to the house and property. Gram always had a list of things she wanted them to do. 

Her parents would also be there this year, one of their State-side years. Abby expected one good argument from her mother about her selection of career. She had wanted a doctor in the family: the older boys had settled on careers anywhere from teaching to stockbroking. But no one had gone into medicine. Still, thought Abby, she did have three younger brothers, her mother still had hope.

Aunt Louisa had been out on the West coast for the last few weeks, managing and babying a couple of promising musicians. She had been expected to arrive earlier in the day. Eli had insisted that she go ahead to Gram's rather than wait for them at the airport in Burlington.

Abby had decided to accompany the two men, feeling that they would probably be in need of some moral support on the tense trip ahead.

The drive was done in absolute silence. Eli was not talkative at the very best of times, and as Abby had discovered over the last two weeks, Jamie tended to be the strong silent type. But even for the two of them, this was bordering on the ridiculous.

"Jamie, see that scenic view rest area up ahead. Stop there, will you?"

Eli twisted to see her face. "You okay?"

Abby smiled. "Just stop. Okay. Now, everybody out."

Jamie looked to Eli who shrugged. All got out of the car.

The view was a familiar one, though the late autumn meant that some of the colours were still around. Abby waited until the quiet and the scenery got to the two men. Jamie rotated his head, as if trying to loosen some muscles. Eli placed a hand on his lover's neck and massaged. They shared a smile.

"Okay, guys, listen up." Abby was sitting on the top of the security railing. "You two have got to relax before we get to the house. You're both tensed up and the last thing we need is a major blow-up."

Eli took exception. "I am not..."

"Eli! Don't try and bullshit me. I know everyone thinks you're laid back to the nth degree, but remember, this is me, Abby. I've seen you lose your temper. And it's not a pretty sight."

Jamie mocked. "Something else you forgot to tell me?" Though he was joking, his tone was dry.

Abby immediately came to Eli's defense. "Doesn't happen often. Once every five years or so. Usually at something my brothers have said or done. But it is spectacular. What's yours like?"

"I'm still alive, aren't I? Can't have pissed off that many people."

"Or maybe they're just not around to be pissed," countered Abby. Then, "Sorry, that was uncalled for. But this has the makings of a pretty tense weekend so it has to start with everyone cool and calm." She paused. "So, do you guys want to stop at the motel on the way in, release some of that tension? I can wait in the car."

Eli's jaw dropped open. "Ab-bey," he wailed.

"Well," Abby shrugged. "I understand it's very relaxing, having sex in the afternoon."

"Jesus! Abby!"

"I'm serious, Eli. I have some books I can read. I don't mind waiting for you two."

Eli looked as though he was going to pull his hair out. He was ready to tear a strip off Abby when they both turned at the sound Jamie made. A choking sound. Abby jumped down to go help when they both realized that Jamie was laughing. Stifled at first, as though he didn't dare let any of his humour out. Then he saw the way both of them were looking at him and he just let go.

Abby and Eli exchanged shrugs, sat on the railing until Jamie finally got himself under control. 

It took a few minutes. Every time Jamie got the laughter under control, he would turn to Eli and Abby who were watching him with identical looks of amused concern and he would start all over again.

"You all right now?" Eli asked when there had been a couple of minutes of silence coming from the man who stood his back to them.

Jamie turned around. "Yeah. You want to take her up on her offer?"

Eli was stunned, "Are you serious?" He shook his head, "No."

"Sure now? I mean this may be the last chance we ever get to fuck each other silly."

Eli went up to Jamie, wrapped his arms around the man's waist, raised himself onto his toes and gently kissed his lover. "I love you."

Jamie pulled Eli tight to him, one arm around his hips, the other clasped around a shoulder, fist knotted in the thick ponytail. He rested his forehead on Eli's. "I love you, too. But you're not the only one who's hidden a few things."

"Doesn't matter. Won't matter. Like the old cliche says: that was then and this is now. Now is all I'm interested in. I love you, Jamie Forester. And I will still love you tomorrow."

The two men melted into each other as Abby turned and discreetly checked out the scenery.

"Okay." Eli stepped back to the car. "Let's go face the family."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Nadia Skinner was thankful she had sent the others on errands so that she was alone in the house when her grandchildren arrived. At the kitchen door, Abby hugged her tightly, looked her over with those eagle eyes of hers -- where in heaven's name had the child gotten that gaze from? -- to be certain she was healthy and stepped aside for Eli's tight hug.

"They're not here," she answered his unasked question. "You've got about an hour to convince me that this is a good idea."

And then she turned to the man watching from the doorway. "Oh, dear." 

The man stiffened slightly, but Nadia shook her head and addressed Abby. "You're right. I wonder what it is about the Skinner men that they're attracted to the same type."

Abby rested her chin on her shoulder, chuckled softly. "None of my brothers have so far shown any tendency towards bad boys. Or girls."

"That, Abby dear, is because your bothers are more Dempsey than they are Skinner. " She held her hand out to Jamie. "Please, I apologize. Abby did tell me, but this is just such a case of deja vu. Please, Jamie, do come in. Eli, I've had to give you two the TV room. Abby, you're in your bedroom. Ouisa is sharing with me."

The quick scurrying of her grandchildren left Nadia alone with Jamie in the kitchen. This one, she thought, is less damaged, no less dangerous. "Well, I think a snack is called for. I know Eli is a bottomless pit. Do you like apple pie?"

"Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Skinner."

She looked back to see Jamie take a place at the table, eyes still on her. She was certain that in any other household that gaze would certainly be disconcerting. But here, after nine years of Alex Krycek, she was rather immune to that look.

The others joined them at the table. Over the chatter that Abby and even Eli set up to cover the fact that Jamie was not speaking, Nadia watched him over the rim of her teacup. Oh, yes. This should prove to be quite a holiday. She wondered if the house would still be standing by the end of it.

Louisa arrived first, her arms full of boxes from the bakery. Once Nadia would have insisted on going all the baking herself. Now, nearing 80, she had no trouble at all letting professionals do all the work.

There were the usual Louisa happy noises on seeing Eli and Abby. And then she graced her son's lover with one of those cold looks she reserved for wayward musicians. "So you're James Forester. I've heard a great deal about you. From Eli, of course."

"And from others as well." Jamie confronted her.

Before there was a chance of escalation, the front door opened.

"The Uncles!" Looking just a little relieved at the interruption, Abby enthusiastically greeted the two men coming in with arms laden down with bags from the local grocery store. Eli was less enthusiastic knowing the reprieve was only temporary.

Nadia watched from the living room, perching on the arm of her favourite chair, felt the temperature in the entrance plummet as introductions were made. She decided to take matters in hand. "Ouisa, dear," pulling her daughter's attention away from her grandson's lover, "put the things you've got in the kitchen, will you? Walter, Alex. I would appreciate if you would put the groceries away before the ice cream melts. The rest of you, come in here."

Jamie looked impressed with the way everyone hurried to obey orders. Eli slipped his arm around Jamie's waist and pulled him gently into the living room and over to the loveseat in one corner. Room only for the two of them. Abby took up an ottoman that was near the loveseat.

>From the doorway, Louisa swept the room with one of her evaluating glances. She took up a stance, sitting on the arm of Nadia's chair, long legs stretched out, one booted ankle over the other, arms crossed.

Lines, thought Nadia, are already drawn up.

They all waited in silence until the Uncles came in, took up the couch, both of them glaring at Jamie Forester.

Jamie, from his seat, saw two men, neither in the first bloom of life, whose age had not lessened their air of danger.

Walter Skinner was eyeing him like he was something that the ex-Assistant Director was considering taking apart. Jamie doubted that the man had lost any of his sharpness, or his ability to see through bullshit, even if he hadn't been with the FBI for ten years. Nor that he was still as good as the grapevine suggested he was.

Jamie found that he suddenly felt like some recalcitrant agent, about to be raked over the coals. And that, from the tightening of the lips that he supposed was meant to be a smile, Walter Skinner knew it.

As for Alex Krycek, the position the man was sitting in made him look as though he were only casually interested in what was going on. It took another professional to recognize that the casual pose was one that could easily change into an attack. 

His research on "Uncle Alex" had turned up the probability that, in spite of the amputated arm, this was the same Alex Krycek whose name he had heard once or twice in Hong Kong. Moreover, in their business, one didn't survive long handicapped. The fact that not only had Krycek survived, but was still alive -- Jamie sighed, mentally -- nope, did not bode well at all. 

Jamie could understand why they all felt protective toward Eli. Hell, he did too. And hell -- beginning to feel just a bit put out by his reception -- surely the fact that this was the first time Eli was bringing anyone with him to a family gathering had to tell them that they were serious about this relationship. That he and Eli loved each other.

The silence in the room was deafening.

Eli's sigh resounded loudly. "Okay. I have a couple of things to say and then you can all have your turn. This is Jamie Forester. And, yes, I do know about his background. All you need to know that I love him. Nothing you can say today will change that."

"You say," Walter spoke into the silence, "that you know about his background. Are you basing that on what the man has told you?"

Eli looked his uncle straight in the face. "Yes."

"And you believe him?"

Eli's face broke into his sleepy grin. "Well, I don't think that he told me about Hong Kong to show me his sweet, gentle side.

"Nor," he quietly emphasized, "about Macao. Certainly not about Indonesia."

Jamie kept an eye on Alex Krycek. Of the two men, he was the more dangerous. Though his focus was on Skinner, Krycek of course knew he was being watched. One predator recognized another.

"I just hope," continued Eli, "that all this digging around hasn't put Jamie's life into jeopardy. I would hate to go into hiding just as the music for that documentary is gelling."

"Eli," the long fingers of one of Louisa's hands drummed a beat against a shoulder, "is this man a wise choice?"

Eli grinned at his mother. "No. But he is my choice. In the past you've always respected my choices."

Louisa looked from her son to his lover. Jamie felt she was trying to read his soul. He knew from Eli that she had accepted Eli's preference for men over women. But he also knew that like any mother, she would have preferred anyone else to be her son's choice. 

Looking him straight in the eye, she spoke to Eli. "Yes, I have. But this is a wolf. Do you really want a wolf in your life?" 

Nadia silently patted her daughter's hand.

Walter was not so reticent. Over the next few minutes, he revealed what all their research had discovered about one James Montgomery Chu, aka James Forester. His involvement as a child with a Hong Kong tong, his capture and imprisonment under the British, being turned to provide them with inside information, his rise in a tong companion group run by Europeans who helped control the Asian black market. The gun battle and inferno that had left behind several blackened bodies, including the one identified as Chu. 

Identified by his wife.

That, Eli hadn't known.

"Wife!" Eli blurted, unslouching suddenly. "You have a wife?"

Jamie hesitated. "I did. I needed a cover. Homosexuals aren't particularly liked within certain tong factions. Anyway, she was married to James Chu, now deceased. She didn't mourn him long. She married my keeper with the British a couple of weeks after I died."

"Kids?" questioned Eli, wondering what else Jamie hadn't thought to mention.

"No. She has a peke that she calls Baby. That's as close to motherhood as MeiLee will ever get." He looked at Eli and smiled. "I didn't think it was important enough to mention."

Abby snickered. 

Jamie knew from Eli's grimace that she wasn't the only one who had caught the reference back to the lunch and his forgetting to mention the Uncles' pasts. He spoke to the room. "Let me make this easier for you. I was declared dead, but the Brits wanted more out of me before they would set me up with a new identity here in the States. That's why Indonesia. I gave them one year of my life and I've got the scars to prove it.

"I know you're worried about Eli. I would too in your place. Look. I don't take unreasonable chances. I keep my head very low. I want to stay alive. But I'm also selfish enough to want Eli in my life."

Jamie waited for reaction and got it. Not what he expected. The silent man on the couch finally spoke.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven. I'll be thirty-eight December 26th."

Alex Krycek nodded, as if that satisfied all his questions. "Well," he stood, stretching, "Nadezhda, isn't it time we started dinner. There's one of those things that passes for football on TV this evening. I promised Walter I would watch with him."

"Silently," reminded Walter, knowing that they had done all they could. The choice was Eli's and if this man was what he wanted...well, who was he to protest?

"What? No commentary?" Abby grinned at Alex as she went to help in the kitchen.

"I lost a bet," he admitted.

"Must have been a beaut."

Alex and Walter exchanged looks and grins. Jamie watched the heat shimmer between the two men and wondered in passing if he and Eli really did look at each other that way.

"Eli, dear," called Nadia, "could you come with me for a moment?"

Nice moves, thought Jamie. They'd managed to separate them. And here he was alone with his lover's mother.

He stood when she did. Eli had made his choice, but he loved his mother and would want her approval at least. So Jamie stayed where he was as she took her time coming up to him. He watched her warily as she looked him carefully up and down, evaluating him. She was a name to contend with in the music business. If she put the word out, he would never again find work as a studio musician, probably not even in a flea-bitten bar in the far back of beyond.

Slowly, Louisa rested her weight on one foot as she shifted her posture to that side. Her hands fisted, rested on her hips. She gave a slight nod, as if she had answered a question that bothered her.

"He's not easy to live with," she said, her tone neutral.

"No, ma'am, he's not."

"Especially when he's composing."

"Especially."

"How do you handle that?" She sounded only faintly curious.

"I leave him alone. Except when I feed him."

Louisa nodded. "You feed him."

"He forgets to eat when he's working."

"What about sleep?"

"He forgets that too. But I figure I'm pushing my luck by insisting he eat, so I leave his body to tell him when he's pushing too hard."

Louisa nodded again.

"And you love him."

Jamie waited until she was looking him in the eyes to answer. "Yes, ma'am. I do."

The quiet avowal seemed to be what Louisa needed to hear.

"Well, we'd better go help them fix supper or we're going to be stuck with the washing up. And, Jamie, I hate washing up."

Jamie smiled and revealed a glimpse of the man her son had fallen in love with. "I'll remember that, ma'am."

"Ouisa. Call me Ouisa. That's what the family calls me."

"Ouisa?" Louisa paused at the door, turned to look at Jamie. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, remember the dishes," and led the way into the clamorous kitchen.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"The air out here is sweeter than city air, don't you find?"

Jamie looked over his shoulder to find Alex Krycek slouching against the closed door. He hadn't heard the man come out. He didn't assume that meant he was losing his touch, just that the other man was that good. Still.

"How did you get away from the football game?"

"Half-time. Doesn't count as part of the game."

Alex came and rested a hip on a side of the porch railing. The November air was crisp but refreshing. Jamie waited for the older man to begin his interrogation.

Alex just smiled. "You're expecting me to what? Rip out your guts for daring to fuck our poor, sweet, defenceless Eli?"

"Something like that."

Alex shook his head. "First of all there is nothing poor about Eli. His bank account is well padded."

Jamie's voice matched the air. "I pay my share, and my own way."

Alex continued as though nothing had been said. "As for sweet...Eli has a reputation as a perfectionist. Probably one of the reasons his cupboards are filled with awards. Perfectionists are many things, but sweet isn't one of them."

Jamie nodded. "He does have a certain reputation. But only with musicians who think they're too good. Or who think they deserve special privileges because of who they are. He's patient with studio musicians who give him their best. And he can make that best better than usual."

Alex leaned his head back against the support post. "As for defenceless. Both Walter and I have taught all the kids ways of defending themselves." He didn't need to mention that he and Walter were the next line of defence. 

"Abby too?"

"Abby especially. She and Eli were the first of the kids to welcome me into the family. And she's adventuresome enough for the two of them. Do you think for a minute we would have let her loose in Europe without a few tricks up her sleeves?"

"Not to mention Russia."

"By all means, let us not mention Russia. Walter still hasn't decided if he's going to forgive me that."

Jamie grinned and then lost it as the tone of Alex's voice changed. "There are a few rules to joining this family you need to know about. To think about before making a final decision."

Jamie took a mirror position to Alex and waited.

"First of all, there is the fact that the Skinners expect fidelity. Whether you be male or female, partners are expected to fuck one body only."

"Does that work both ways?"

"Oh, yeah. The Skinners are really into monogamy. And even if Eli doesn't look like a Skinner, he is in upbringing. So you'd better think about that."

"Anything else?"

Alex nodded. "Sometimes relationships don't work out. That can happen. If it does happen in this case, you get in touch with me."

"You're also a marriage counsellor?"

"No. I'll just want to hear your side of the break-up before I decide if you live or die." He smiled and Jamie felt a chill that didn't come from the night.

"Will you listen, or just plain shoot?"

"I'll listen. Frankly, I'll listen anytime. Skinners take some getting used to and sometimes there are tricks to handling them that might make things a little easier. In fact, if you decide that all this is too much for you, say within the next two weeks, you can just take off without contacting me. Anytime after that, I'll consider you fair game unless you call."

Jamie looked over the yard and thought for a minute. "Okay. That's fair. It won't happen, but that is fair of you."

"Another thing."

"Yes?" There was an undercurrent of humour in Jamie's voice, one that Alex met with a grin.

"Has Eli warned you about his aunt Jilly?"

Jamie grinned. "No, but Abby has."

"Good. She means well, but you'll probably want to strangle her five minutes after you meet her. Her husband Gene thinks she walks on water even after all this time. See what I mean about monogamy?

"You just take it like the rest of us do. Grit your teeth and swallow your words. On the other hand, if the boys say anything that you feel crosses the line for you, they're open season. Just remember that Nadezhda loves them and do it out of her hearing."

"Uncle Alex, half time is over." Eli came out onto the porch and joined the men. 

"Shit! Remind me never to bet on a sure thing where Jilly's involved, will you? The only thing sure about that woman is that she's full of surprises. Why the hell Walter can't follow soccer..."

"France," said Jamie. 

Alex stopped in his tracks. Turned around to glare at the smiling man. "Italy," he insisted. Then he grinned at Eli, "Thank you."

Eli laughed softly. "My pleasure."

Alex closed the door behind him. With an exaggerated sigh, he joined his lover on the couch. "Jamie's a soccer fan," he announced with one of those shit-eating grins of his.

Walter took his eyes off the screen. "Effete sport," he growled as he wrapped an arm around Alex's shoulders and pulled until Alex lay on the couch, head on Walter's lap. It wasn't a bad way to watch a game he pretended he hated.

Out on the porch, Eli was far too busy to think about the game. 

                          NIF

  
Archived: July 09, 2001 


End file.
